However, I accepted his card without comment, as though a meeting with a millionaire double were an everyday event in my own existence. "My own name," I said, "is John Burton. I am afraid that a card-case is outside my present scheme of things." He bowed. "Well, Mr. Burton," he began deliberately, "since chance has thrown us together in this fashion, it seems a pity not to improve our acquaintance. If you are in no hurry, perhaps you would give me the pleasure of your society at supper?" I don't know what it was--something in his voice, perhaps--but, anyhow, I had a curious instinct that he was extremely anxious I should accept. I thought I would test him. "It's very kind of you," I said, with a smile, "but, as a matter of fact, I have just finished dinner." He waved aside the objection. "Well, well, a bottle of wine, then. After all, one doesn't meet one's double every day." There was a four-wheeler trundling slowly up the Embankment, and without waiting for any further reply from me, he raised his hand and beckoned to the driver. As the man drew up, a tattered figure that had been lounging on one of the seats a little farther down shambled hastily forward as though to open the door. My eyes happened to be on Northcote at the moment, and I was amazed at the sudden change that came over him. He looked like a man in the presence of some imminent danger. Like a flash, his right hand travelled to his side pocket with a gesture that it was impossible to misunderstand. "Stand back," he said harshly. The loafer, astonished at his tone, stopped abruptly in the circle of white light cast by the electric lamp. "Beg pardon, guv'nor," he whined; "on'y goin' to open the door for yer, guv'nor." Northcote's cold blue eyes scrutinised him keenly for a moment. "That's all right, my man," he said, in a rather different voice. "Here you are!" He flung a silver coin--a half-crown it looked like--on to the pavement, and with a gasp of amazement the man dived to pick it up. As he did so, Northcote, still watching him, stepped forward to the cab and flung open the door. "You get in, Mr. Burton, will you?" he said; and then, as I climbed into the cab, he turned to the driver. "The Milan," he said curtly, and then, following me, slammed the door. As we drove away, I saw the white face of the loafer, who had apparently recovered his coin, staring after us out of the lamplight. Northcote must have guessed that I had noticed his agitation, for he laughed in a rather forced manner. "I dislike those fellows," he said. "It's foolish, of course,--one ought to pity the poor devils,--but somehow or other I can't stand their coming anywhere near me." His words were easy and natural enough, but they did not convince me in the least. I have seen too many men in danger of their lives to mistake the symptoms.