Having some purchases to make, Lionel stopped in London for a few hours, after leaving Edith, before continuing his journey home. He had kept telling himself, as he came along in the train, that he must not fail to call on Kester before going back to Park Newton. He wanted his cousin to fix a date for his promised visit. But when London was reached and his business done, he still felt unaccountably reluctant to pay the call. He shrank from making any inquiry of himself as to the origin of this strange reluctance, but its existence he could not dispute. Was it possible that some half-formed and unacknowledged doubt was at work in his mind as to whether the man who had so brutally struck him down was any other than Kester St. George? If so, it was a doubt that never clothed itself with words even to himself. But, be that as it may, four o’clock was reached; his train started at five, and Great Carrington Street was still as far away as ever. His irresolution was brought to a sudden end at last. He was gazing absently into Colnaghi’s window, when a hand was laid lightly on his shoulder, and his cousin’s musical voice fell on his ear. “What! in town again, old fellow? You might have let one know that you were coming.” All Lionel’s half-shaped doubts vanished in a moment under the influence of his cousin’s genial smile and hearty grasp of the hand. As he stood there his conscience pricked him that he should have wronged Kester for a moment even in thought. “I have only just got back from Paris,” he said. “I am glad to have met you, because I want you to fix a date for your promised visit to Park Newton.” Kester was not alone. His arm was linked in that of another man. “Before fixing anything,” he said, “I must introduce to you my particular friend, Mr. Percy Osmond.—Osmond, my cousin, Li Dering, of whom you have frequently heard me speak.” The two men bowed. “Is it possible,” asked Lionel, “that you are a brother of the Mr. Kenneth Osmond whom I met when in America?” “Kenneth Osmond and I are certainly brothers,” answered the other. “Then I am very pleased to make your acquaintance. Your brother and I travelled together for six months through some of the wildest parts of North America. I never met with a man in my life whom I esteemed more or liked better.” “Look here,” said Kester. “We can’t stand jawing in the street for ever. My club’s not three minutes away. Let us go there and wet the talk with a bottle of fiz.” Mr. Percy Osmond was about eight-and-twenty years old. He was of medium height and slender build, and of a somewhat effeminate appearance. He had good features, and had rather fine black eyes, of which he was particularly proud. But there was a shiftiness about them, a restlessly suspicious look, as though the man at one time had been haunted by some terrible fear, and had never been able to forget it.