If he could ever have been said to threaten complications he rather visibly did so now. I began to regret my officious presentation of his name and prepared without delay to lead him out of the house. We overtook the housekeeper in the last room of the series, a small unused boudoir over whose chimney-piece hung a portrait of a young man in a powdered wig and a brocaded waistcoat. I was struck with his resemblance to my companion while our guide introduced him. “This is Mr. Clement Searle, Mr. Searle’s great-uncle, by Sir Joshua Reynolds. He died young, poor gentleman; he perished at sea, going to America.” “He was the young buck who brought the majolica out of Italy,” I supplemented. “Indeed, sir, I believe he did,” said the housekeeper without wonder. “He’s the image of you, my dear Searle,” I further observed. “He’s remarkably like the gentleman, saving his presence,” said the housekeeper. My friend stood staring. “Clement Searle--at sea--going to America--?” he broke out. Then with some sharpness to our old woman: “Why the devil did he go to America?” “Why indeed, sir? You may well ask. I believe he had kinsfolk there. It was for them to come to him.” Searle broke into a laugh. “It was for them to come to him! Well, well,” he said, fixing his eyes on our guide, “they’ve come to him at last!” She blushed like a wrinkled rose-leaf. “Indeed, sir, I verily believe you’re one of _us!_” “My name’s the name of that beautiful youth,” Searle went on. “Dear kinsman I’m happy to meet you! And what do you think of this?” he pursued as he grasped me by the arm. “I have an idea. He perished at sea. His spirit came ashore and wandered about in misery till it got another incarnation--in this poor trunk!” And he tapped his hollow chest. “Here it has rattled about these forty years, beating its wings against its rickety cage, begging to be taken home again. And I never knew what was the matter with me! Now at last the bruised spirit can escape!” Our old lady gaped at a breadth of appreciation--if not at the disclosure of a connexion--beyond her. The scene was really embarrassing, and my confusion increased as we became aware of another presence. A lady had appeared in the doorway and the housekeeper dropped just audibly: “Miss Searle!” My first impression of Miss Searle was that she was neither young nor beautiful. She stood without confidence on the threshold, pale, trying to smile and twirling my card in her fingers. I immediately bowed. Searle stared at her as if one of the pictures had stepped out of its frame. “If I’m not mistaken one of you gentlemen is Mr. Clement Searle,” the lady adventured. “My friend’s Mr. Clement Searle,” I took upon myself to reply. “Allow me to add that I alone am responsible for your having received his name.” “I should have been sorry not to--not to see him,” said Miss Searle, beginning to blush. “Your being from America has led me--perhaps to intrude!”