After a while Lamport began to walk on again as fast as he was able to escape the rain. It was now very late, almost in the small hours of the morning, and a longing seized upon him for more drink. He had reached Digby Street by this time, and, with that strange fatality which seems to haunt criminals, the fatality which brings them back to the scenes of former crime, he entered the Hotel Metropole. It was still full, and Lamport's entrance excited no particular attention. In the glare of the lamps, however, he was enabled to see that he was splashed and covered with mud, and his clothes, where they were not protected by his rough pea-jacket, were dripping wet. He glanced at his face in the oval mirror which gleamed from the wall. It was deathly pale, and he felt a cold shivering down his limbs. He moved into the crowd at the bar, and called out for "three fingers hot." At the sound of his voice Kavasji looked up at him. Lamport was, however, certain that the shaving of his beard had so altered his appearance that he was, comparatively speaking, unrecognisable; besides, as he was spattered with mud, and with his cap pulled well over his brows, he felt perfectly secure. He was mistaken, however. Kavasji was one of those men who have a born genius for remembering faces, and he recognised Lamport at once. He said no word at first, but silently mixed his tumbler of liquor and handed it to him. Lamport stood a little on one side at the end of the bar, and began to drink. When he had finished he called for another tumbler, and as the Parsee handed this to him he said in a low voice, "Bill is here; he is looking for you." Lamport started at the warning, but said nothing. He drank his second tumbler quietly, and, after paying his score, slipped out into the street once more. Kavasji had not given this warning with any friendly feeling toward Lamport, but simply for the reason that he wished to get rid of him. It was perfectly true that Bill had been there that evening. He might be back at any moment, and then, if there was recognition, there would perhaps be murder. Kavasji had not forgotten the scene when Bill woke from his drugged sleep and found that he had missed his ship and had been robbed. In order that the matter might be kept quiet, the Parsee had placed Dungaree in funds, knowing that it would mostly come back to him over the counter, and what little loss he might suffer would be well repaid by the absence of a police visitation. Kavasji had suffered much from such inroads. Bill had, however, shown no inclination to get another ship. As long as Kavasji's advance lasted he determined to wait, in the hopes of meeting Lamport, of recovering his lost property and of exacting vengeance. He was perfectly convinced that it was Lamport who had stolen the money. He had done similar things himself, and therefore knew. Moreover, the thought that he, Dungaree Bill, the old and hardened campaigner, should have been taken in in so transparent a