Then a little out of curiosity, but more, I declare, because I thought it the right thing to do, I resolved to seek out George Ritherdon. I had no difficulty in learning where he could be found. I turned up the firm of Ritherdon Brothers (George and Gerald), cotton-spinners and India merchants, in the first directory I consulted. And about noon the next day I called at their place of business, and sent in my card to the senior partner. I waited five minutes--curiously scanned by the porter, who without doubt saw a likeness between me and his employer--and then I was admitted to the latter's room. He was a tall man with a fair beard, not a whit like Gerald, and yet tolerably good-looking; if I say more I shall seem to be describing myself. I fancied him to be balder about the temples, however, and greyer and more careworn than the man I am in the habit of seeing in my shaving-glass. His eyes, too, had a hard look, and he seemed to be in ill-health. All these things I took in later. At the time I only noticed his clothes. "So the old gentleman is dead," I thought, "and the young one's tale was true after all!" George Ritherdon was in deep mourning. "I wrote to you," I began, taking the seat to which he pointed, "about a fortnight ago." He looked at my card, which he held in his hand. "I think not," he said slowly. "Yes," I repeated. "You were then at the London and North-Western Hotel, at Liverpool." He was stepping to his writing-table, but he stopped. "I was in Liverpool," he answered in a different tone, "but I was not at that hotel. You are thinking of my brother, are you not?" "No," I said. "It was your brother who told me you were there." "Perhaps you had better explain," he suggested, speaking in the weary tone of one returning to a painful matter, "what was the subject of your letter. I have been through a great trouble lately, and this may well have been overlooked." I said I would, and as briefly as possible I told the story of my strange visit in Fitzhardinge Square. He was much moved, walking up and down the room as he listened, and giving vent to occasional exclamations, until I came to the arrangement I had made with his brother. Then he raised his hand as one might do in pain. "Enough!" he said. "Barnes told me a rambling tale of some stranger. I understand it all now." "So do I, I think!" I replied dryly. "Your brother went to Liverpool, and received the papers in your name?" He murmured what I took for "Yes." But he did not utter a single word of acknowledgment to me, or of reprobation of his brother's deceit. I thought some such word should have been spoken; and I let my feelings carry me away. "Let me tell you," I said, warmly, "that your brother is a----" "Hush!" he said, holding up his hand. "He is dead." "Dead!" I repeated, shocked and amazed.