“Has the other gentleman any luggage?” “Yes, this large black bag belongs to him.” Janvard stooped and read: “Tom Bristow, Esq., Passenger to Bath.” “Quite strange to me, that name,” he muttered to himself. At this moment the boots came, and shouldering the luggage, hurried with it upstairs. “They have ordered dinner, I suppose?” “Yes, sir.” “Did you hear them say how long they were likely to stay here?” “No, sir.” “Wait on them yourself at dinner. Bear in mind all that they talk about, and report it to me afterwards.” “Yes, sir.” Pierre Janvard retired to his sanctum considerably disturbed in mind. Was the fresh arrival any relation or connection of the dead Lionel Dering, or was it merely one of those coincidences of name common enough in everyday life? These were the two questions that he put to himself again and again. One thing was quite evident to him. Himself unseen, he must contrive to see this unknown Richard Dering. If there were a possibility of the slightest shadow of danger springing either from this or from any other quarter, it behoved him to be on his guard. He would see these people, after which, if requisite, he would at once write to Mr. Kester St. George for instructions. He had just brought his cogitations to an end, and had opened his banker’s passbook, the contemplation of which was a never-failing source of joy to him, when a tap came to the door, and next moment in walked Mr. Richard Dering and Mr. Tom Bristow. It was on the face of this Richard Dering that Pierre Janvard’s eyes rested first. In one brief glance he took in every detail of his appearance. Then his eyes fell. His sallow face grew sallower still. His thin lips quivered for a moment, and then his hands began to tremble slightly, so that in a little while he was obliged to take them off the table and bury them in his pockets. He saw at once that this Mr. Dering must be a near relative of that other Mr. Dering whose face he remembered so well—whose face it was impossible that he should ever forget. They were alike, and yet strangely unlike: the same in many points, and yet in others most different. But the moment this dark-looking stranger opened his lips, it seemed indeed as if Lionel Dering had come back from the grave. A covert glance at Mr. Bristow assured Janvard that in him he beheld a man whose face he had no recollection of having ever seen before. “Your name is Janvard, I believe?” said Mr. Dering, with a slight bow. “Pierre Janvard at your service,” answered the Frenchman, deferentially. “You were formerly, I believe, in the service of Mr. Kester St. George?” “I had that honour.” “My name is Dering—Richard Dering. It is probable that you never heard of me before, seeing that I have only lately returned from India. I am cousin to Mr. Kester St. George.” The Frenchman bowed. “I have no recollection of having heard monsieur’s name mentioned by my late employer.”