The resemblance between the brothers was extraordinary. I had some difficulty in persuading myself that the man before me was not he whom I had seen dead that morning. The same pale face, dark hair, and jaunty mustache, the same gestures, the same gravity of demeanor, and actually the same tones in the voice. There was not the slightest difference between Felix and Francis; the one duplicated the other. I no longer wondered that Olivia was deceived. Despite my acquaintance with the brothers, I should have been tricked myself. As it was I stared open-mouthed at the young man. "This is a pleasant surprise, Denham," he said, looking anxiously at me. "I did not know you were in this part of the world." "Nor was I until yesterday. I am on a walking tour, and last night slept at the Fen Inn." "The Fen Inn," he repeated, with a slight start; "what took you to that out of the way place?" "I came by the marshes, and, as I was belated, had to take the shelter that offered." "But, man alive!" said Felix, raising his eyebrows, "the inn is empty." This time it was my turn to be astonished. If Felix thought the inn was empty, why did he appoint it as a meeting place for his brother? He either knew too much or too little, so it behooved me to conduct the conversation with the utmost dexterity. "It was not empty last night, at all events," I retorted, keeping my eyes fixed on his face. "Indeed! Are gypsies encamped there?" he said coolly. "Well, not exactly," I answered, emulating his calm; "it was in charge of a man called Strent, and his daughter." "This is news to me. I was always under the impression that the Fen Inn was quite deserted." "You have not been near it lately?" "No! Nobody goes near it. They say it is haunted." "Pshaw," I answered angrily, "an old wife's tale. And yet," I added, after a moment's thought, "it may well be haunted after what took place there last night." "This begins to grow interesting," said Felix. "Had you an adventure?" "Yes! I met with your brother." "Impossible! My brother Felix is in Paris." "I am talking of Francis." "Francis!" he repeated, with a disagreeable smile. "Francis! Well, Denham! I am Francis." "I think you are making a mistake, Briarfield," said I coldly; "your brother Francis slept at the Fen Inn last night." "I slept in this house." "I quite believe that. But you are Felix!" "Oh!" said Briarfield, bursting into a harsh laugh. "I see you are making the inevitable mistake of mixing me up with my brother. It is pardonable under the circumstances, otherwise I might resent your plain speaking." The assurance of the man was so complete that I wondered if he knew that his secret was safe by the death of his brother. Such knowledge would account for his complacency. Yet it was quite impossible that he could know of the death, as he certainly had not been to the inn. I knew that from my own knowledge. "If you are Francis," said I slowly, "you are engaged to Miss Bellin."