"I hope we shall see a great deal of each other when I am settled in Cumberland Place," he said, as he prepared to leave. The remark, though spoken to Easterton, had been addressed to us all, and we made some conventional reply in acknowledgment. "And if, later, I decide to join this club," he said presently, "you won't mind proposing me, will you, Easterton?" "I? Er—oh, of course, not in the least!" Easterton answered awkwardly, taken off his guard. "But it will take you a good time to get in, you know," he added as an afterthought, hopeful that the prospect of delay might cause Gastrell to change his mind. "Two, even three years, some men have to wait." "That won't matter," Gastrell said carelessly, as the hall porter helped him on with his coat. "I can join some other club meanwhile, though I draw the line at pot-houses. Well, good night to you all, and you must all come to my house-warming—a sort of reception I'm going to give. I ought to be settled into the house in a month. And I hope," he added lightly, addressing Jack Osborne and myself, "you won't run across any more of my 'doubles.' I don't like the thought of being mistaken for other men!" The door of the taxi shut with a bang. In the hall, where the tape machines were busy, Osborne and I stood looking at each other thoughtfully. Presently Osborne spoke. "What do you make of it?" he asked abruptly. "I am as certain that is the fellow who was with me on board ship as I am that I am standing here." "And I am equally positive," I answered, "he's the man I met in Geneva. It's impossible there could be two individuals so absolutely identical—I tell you it's not possible." Osborne paused for some moments, thinking. "Berrington," he said suddenly. "Yes? What?" I asked, taken aback at his change of tone. He took a step forward and laid his hand upon my shoulder. "Berrington," he repeated—and in his eyes there was a singular expression—"I have an idea." He turned to a page who was standing near. "Boy," he said sharply, "what address did that gentleman who has just gone tell you to give to his driver?" "He told the driver himself, sir," the boy answered, "but I heard the address he gave, sir." "What was it?" "Three forty, Maresfield Gardens, sir. It's near Swiss Cottage—up Fitzjohn's Avenue on the right." Osborne turned to me quickly. "Come into this room," he said. "There is something I want to ask you. The place is empty, and we shall not be disturbed." When he had closed the door, and glanced about him to make sure that we were alone, he said in a low voice: