Having written for close on two hours, he pushed back his chair and stretched his cramped fingers; then he yawned, rose, and slowly walked across the room. Reaching the mantel-piece, he took a pipe from the pipe-rack and some tobacco from the jar that stood behind the books. His face looked tired and a little worn, as is common with men who have worked long at an uncongenial task. Shredding the tobacco between his hands, he slowly filled the pipe, then lighted it from the fire with a spill of twisted paper. Almost at the moment that he applied the light the sound of steps mounting the uncarpeted stairs outside caught his attention, and he raised his head to listen. Presently the steps halted and he heard a match struck. The stranger was evidently uncertain of his whereabouts. Then the steps moved forward again and paused. An expression of surprise crossed Loder's face, and he laid down his pipe. As the visitor knocked, he walked quietly across the room and opened the door. The passage outside was dark, and the new-comer drew back before the light from the room. “Mr. Loder--?” he began, interrogatively. Then all at once he laughed in embarrassed apology. “Forgive me,” he said. “The light rather dazzled me. I didn't realize who it was.” Loder recognized the voice as belonging to his acquaintance of the fog. “Oh, it's you!” he said. “Won't you come in?” His voice was a little cold. This sudden resurrection left him surprised--and not quite pleasantly surprised. He walked back to the fireplace, followed by his guest. The guest seemed nervous and agitated. “I must apologize for the hour of my visit,” he said. “My--my time is not quite my own.” Loder waved his hand. “Whose time is his own?” he said. Chilcote, encouraged by the remark, drew nearer to the fire. Until this moment he had refrained from looking directly at his host; now, however, he raised his eyes, and, despite his preparation, he recoiled unavoidably before the extraordinary resemblance. Seen here, in the casual surroundings of a badly furnished and crudely lighted room, it was even more astounding than it had been in the mystery of the fog. “Forgive me,” he said again. “It is physical--purely physical. I am bowled over against my will.” Loder smiled. The slight contempt that Chilcote had first inspired rose again, and with it a second feeling less easily defined. The man seemed so unstable, so incapable, yet so grotesquely suggestive to himself. “The likeness is rather overwhelming,” he said; “but not heavy enough to sink under. Come nearer the fire. What brought you here? Curiosity?” There was a wooden arm-chair by the fireplace. He indicated it with a wave of the hand; then turned and took up his smouldering pipe. Chilcote, watching him furtively, obeyed the gesture and sat down. “It is extraordinary!” he said, as if unable to dismiss the subject. “It--it is quite extraordinary!”