“There, Henry,” I whispered, with a laugh; “you see we are discovered.” Though our relationship was not close we had been cast in the mold of some common ancestor. We were so nearly alike in form and feature as to perplex all but our intimate acquaintances, and we had made the resemblance the occasion of many tricks in our boyhood days. Henry had heard the exclamation as well as I. To my surprise, it appeared to bring him annoyance or apprehension rather than amusement. “I had forgotten that it would make us conspicuous,” he said, more to himself than to me, I thought; and he glanced through the cabin as though he looked for some peril. “We were used to that long ago,” I said, as we found a seat. “Is the business ready for me? You wrote that you thought it would be in hand by the time I got here.” “We can't talk about it here,” he said in a low tone. “There is plenty of work to be done. It's not hard, but, as I wrote you, it needs a man of pluck and discretion. It's delicate business, you understand, and dangerous if you can't keep your head. But the danger won't be yours. I've got that end of it.” “Of course you're not trying to do anything against the law?” I said. “Oh, it has nothing to do with the law,” he replied with an odd smile. “In fact, it's a little matter in which we are--well, you might say--outside the law.” I gave a gasp at this disturbing suggestion, and Henry chuckled as he saw the consternation written on my face. Then he rose and said: “Come, the boat is getting in.” “But I want to know--” I began. “Oh, bother your 'want-to-knows.' It's not against the law--just outside it, you understand. I'll tell you more of it when we get to my room. Give me that valise. Come along now.” And as the boat entered the slip we found ourselves at the front of the pressing crowd that is always surging in and out of San Francisco by the gateway of the Market-Street ferry. As we pushed our way through the clamoring hack-drivers and hotel-runners who blocked the entrance to the city, I was roused by a sudden thrill of the instinct of danger that warns one when he meets the eye of a snake. It was gone in an instant, but I had time to trace effect to cause. The warning came this time from the eyes of a man, a lithe, keen-faced man who flashed a look of triumphant malice on us as he disappeared in the waiting-room of the ferry-shed. But the keen face, and the basilisk glance were burned into my mind in that moment as deeply as though I had known then what evil was behind them. My companion swore softly to himself. “What's the matter?” I asked. “Don't look around,” he said. “We are watched.” “The snake-eyed man?” “Did you see him, too?” His manner was careless, but his tone was troubled. “I thought I had given him the slip,” he continued. “Well, there's no help for it now.” “Are we to hunt for a hiding-place?” I asked doubtfully.