Reentering the library, the servant found Vernet, his cheeks flushed, his eyes ablaze with excitement, standing before an easel which upheld a life-sized portrait--a new portrait, recently finished and just sent home, and as like the original, as he had appeared on yesterday, as a picture could be like life. When the servant had delivered his message, and without paying the slightest heed to its purport, Vernet demanded, almost fiercely: "Who is the original of that portrait?" "That, sir," said the servant, "is Mr. Alan Warburton." CHAPTER XXI. A PROMISE TO THE DYING. Paying no further heed to the servant, and much to the surprise of that functionary, Van Vernet turned his gaze back upon the picture, and looked long and intently, shifting his position once or twice to obtain a different view. Then taking up his hat, he silently left the house, a look of mingled elation and perplexity upon his face. "It's the same!" he thought, as he hurried away; "it's the same face, or a most wonderful resemblance. Allow for the difference made by the glazed cap, the tattoo marks and the rough dress, and it's the very same face! It seems incredible, but I know that such impossibilities often exist. What is there in common between Mr. Alan Warburton, aristocrat, and a nameless sailor, with scars upon his face and blood upon his hands? The same face, certainly, and--perhaps the same delicate hands and dainty feet. It may be only a resemblance, but I'll see this Alan Warburton, and I'll solve the mystery of that Francoise hovel yet." * * * * * While Van Vernet thus soliloquizes over his startling discovery, we will follow the footsteps of Richard Stanhope. He is walking away from the more bustling portion of the city, and turning into a quiet, home-like street, pauses before a long, trim-looking building, turns a moment to gaze about him in quest of possible observers, and then enters. It is a hospital, watched over by an order of noble women, and affording every relief and comfort to the suffering ones within its walls. Passing the offices and long wards, he goes on until he has reached a private room in the rear of the building. Here coolness and quiet reign, and a calm-faced woman is sitting beside a cot, upon which a sick man tosses and mutters feverishly. It is the ex-convict who was rescued from the Thieves' Tavern by Stanhope, only a few nights ago. "How is your patient?" queries the detective, approaching the bed and gazing down upon the man whom he has befriended. "He has not long to live," replies the nurse. "I am glad you are here, sir. In his lucid moments he asks for you constantly. His delirium will pass soon, I think, and he will have a quiet interval. I hope you will remain." "I will stay as long as possible," Stanhope says, seating himself by the bed. "But I have not much time to spare to-night."