In a few moments a man appeared. He came from some place towards the further end of the valley, and he was no doubt one of those whom we had seen on this very square the day before. Signor Davelli spoke to the man. “You will meet this gentleman,” he said, “here, to-morrow; his name is Mr. Wilbraham. Meet him at whatever hour he pleases, and show him whatever he wishes to see.” Then he spoke a few words in the same strange language as before, and accompanied his words with the same sort of action. Then he turned to me and said, “Will you meet me here at nine o’clock to-morrow, and I will take you to see what we are doing at the further end of the valley?” I hesitated for a moment, and then I said, “Yes, I will meet you.” Whether my hesitation, or anything in my tone, indicated that I meant not to commit myself to more than to meet him, I cannot say, but as I spoke a scowl passed over his face. It came and went in a moment, and then he said, “Very well,” rather curtly, to me. And then, addressing us both in the same gracious manner as before, “And now you are tired,” he said, “and it is getting late; I hope you find your quarters convenient and your commissariat sufficient.” We assured him on both points briefly, made our parting salutation, and retired. I may here mention that the salutations which passed between us and him were never anything more than a formal inclination of the head. Two more facts must be put on record before I close the account of this eventful day. We met near the foot of the great stairway the man whom I supposed to be James Redpath. He appeared to be engaged in setting right some detail of the machinery made use of by the workers on the platform. I could not but think as I looked upon him that he had all the appearance of being a machine himself, worked by an intellect not his own. Yet he was evidently working with a will. I stepped forward and stood before him, having first made a sign to Jack. “James Redpath,” I said; “surely it must be James Redpath?” He started, and looked at me with a surly scowl, but said nothing. The name (of course I used his real name) seemed to remind him of something, but there was no recognition in his eyes. “Don’t you remember Bob Easterley?” I said. He looked at me and then his eyes wandered. There was a muddled, wicked look about him, such as you will sometimes see in the eyes of a very bad-tempered man when he is drunk. “Don’t you remember Penruddock?” I said, again of course using the real name. He started again, and I thought he brightened, but it was a queer sort of brightening.