Harry stared in amazement at the mention of his name. For a moment he did not recognize the dark unshaven features of the man. They seemed familiar, yet somehow he failed to connect them with time, or space, or locality. Then it suddenly came to him. "Aaron Phillips!" he exclaimed. "Now is it Luck that has sent you here, or Coincidence?" CHAPTER VII A LEAF FROM THE PAST Aaron Phillips was standing up with something like a smile upon his face. He was a short, slim person, swarthy and foreign-looking, except for the pair of keen blue eyes which bespoke the Anglo-Saxon in his blood. From the roots of his hair across to his left temple was a long, angry red furrow which looked like a comparatively freshly-healed wound. As to the rest, he was fairly well dressed, with that indescribable air of nattiness which usually pertains to those who belong to the _genus_ "horsey." "Glad to meet you, Mr. Fielden," he grinned. "I shall be obliged if you won't use that name here," Harry replied. "For the present my name is Field, and I want you not to forget it. But how did you manage to get home again? I thought you were dead." Phillips indicated the scar on his forehead. "It was a near thing, Mr. Fielden, I beg pardon, Field. It wasn't the fault of those scoundrels, I can tell you. They left me for dead, and if I hadn't been picked up by some of the boys I should have died of starvation on the veldt. As it was, I had a very close shave, and so did Copley and Foster, for the matter of that. Our friends chased them all across the Colony and how they managed to escape was a mystery to me. Still, perhaps it is as well. There are more ways than one of taking revenge." The little man's eyes gleamed as he spoke. He glanced meaningly at Fielden and jingled a few coppers in his pocket. "Make them pay for it, you mean," Fielden smiled.