I was astounded, also annoyed. Who on earth was this big man, who seemed to know so much, who spoke of Vera as though he knew her intimately and met her every day, and who apparently was acquainted also with Sir Charles and Lady Thorold, yet whom I had never before set eyes on, though I was so very friendly with the Thorolds? The stranger had spoken of my well-beloved! "You will forgive my asking you, I am sure," I said, curiosity getting the better of me, "but--well, I have not the pleasure of knowing your name. Do you mind telling me?" "Mind telling you my name?" he exclaimed, with a look of surprise. "Why, not in the least. My name is--well--Smithson--if you like. Any name will do?" He must have noticed my sudden change of expression, for he said at once-- "You seem surprised?" "I--well, I am rather surprised. But you merely are not Smithson," I answered awkwardly. I was staring hard at him, scrutinising his face in order to discover some resemblance to the portrait which at that moment lay snugly at the bottom of my valise. The portrait showed a clean-shaven man, younger than this strange individual whom I had met, as I believed, for the first time, barely a quarter of an hour before. Age might have wrought changes, and the beard might have served as a disguise, but the man in the picture was certainly over thirty-four, and my companion here at dinner could not have been less than forty-five at most. Even the eyes, those betrayers of disguised faces, bore no resemblance that I could see to the eyes of the man in the picture. The beard and moustache of the man facing me were certainly not artificial. That I could see at a glance. "Why are you surprised?" the man asked abruptly. "It would take a long time to explain," I answered, equivocating, "but it is a curious coincidence that only yesterday I almost met a man named Smithson. I was wondering if he could be some relation of yours. He was not like you in face." "Oh, so you know Smithson?" "No, I don't know him. I have never met him. I said I _almost_ met him." "Have you never seen him, then?" "Never in my life." "And yet you say he is `not like me in face.' How do you know he is not like me in face if you have never seen him?" The sudden directness of his tone disconcerted me. For an instant I felt like a witness being cross-examined by a bullying Counsel. "I've seen a portrait of him." "Indeed?" My companion raised his eyebrows. "And where did you see a portrait of him?" he inquired pointedly. This was embarrassing. Why was he suddenly so interested, so inquisitive? I had no wish to make statements which I felt might lead to my being dragged into saying all sorts of things I had no wish to say, especially to a stranger who, though he had led me to believe that he was acquainted with the Thorolds, apparently had no inkling of what had just happened at Houghton Park.