"I am glad--to meet you so soon after your arrival," continued Varney. "Some one should tell you that your boyhood acquaintances have longer memories. You came here for your health, I believe? I think you might do well to leave for the same reason." Stanhope's eyes became little slits behind his trim glasses. "What do you mean by these extraordinary remarks?" Varney, whose brain seemed to have changed into a ball of shooting pains and brilliant fireworks, endeavored to think out clearly just what he had meant by his extraordinary remarks. "Possibly you think that I resemble you somewhat?" he said, slowly. "A number of people here seem to hold that view. In fact, they have mistaken me for you--everybody has. Doubtless you know why they should feel unkindly towards you. I make myself perfectly clear, do I not? Only this afternoon I heard that a little party was being gotten together for my benefit." The author dropped his nervous-looking eyes; he tugged uncertainly at his wisp of a mustache. "This thump on the head from poor old Orrick may satisfy them," continued Varney. "But my idea is that it won't. I think Orrick was acting independently this afternoon. A kind of free lance, you know. I think he met me by accident. There's a train to New York at eight-ten," he added, looking about for his hat. "I believe I'd clear out if I were you." "Something's back of this!" broke out Stanhope suddenly. "Some dirty scheme--some infamous plot--" "Yes, you are right," said Varney with an effort. "There is a plot back of it. But I don't know that that makes it any better for you--" "I insist that you explain yourself at once!" "I was just about to. I came here three days ago, a stranger--on a little stay. A friend who is with me got interested in a reform movement here. Politics, you understand. The other side to injure him, published the story that I was you, under an _alias_. Naturally we didn't like that. We bought the paper just to say that I wasn't. I supposed that had settled it. It seems I was wrong. You see, a good deal of feeling had been worked up meantime--" "Hello!" exclaimed Stanhope suddenly raising his hand. "What's that?" Varney listened. "Men's voices," he said slowly. The door flew open and a man whose ordinary impassivity was touched with a pleasurable excitement stood on the threshold. "If you please, sir, there's some rough-looking men just sneaked up on the lawn. Ten or twelve--sort of a mob-like, Hi should say--" "What do they want?" demanded Stanhope in a high voice. "No good, sir, I'm thinking," said the servant shaking his head. "I was at an upstairs window and saw 'em come sneaking up one by one, hentering at different places. I made a noise not honlike the click of a 'ammer of a gun, and they took alarm and scattered back. But they hain't gone away, sir. Not by a long shot they hain't."