I had my back to the door, and the middle-aged man who spoke between his teeth and was lying back in the lounge chair was almost facing me. Suddenly, a look of recognition came into his eyes--he had seen some one behind me enter, whom he knew. "Ah, here is good old Dago," he exclaimed. He held up his hand and signalled to him. I had fitted a cigarette into my holder, struck a match, and lit up slowly, while I composed my thoughts. Now I half-turned to gaze upon this man of whom I had heard so much, and was now to see for the first time. CHAPTER THIRTEEN. IN THE WEB. I held my breath. I should have recognised him at once from the panel portrait, though he looked some years older than when that photograph had been taken. Of medium height, and rather broadly built, he had all the appearance of a gentleman. His hair was very short, with dark grey, rather deep-set eyes, and thick dark eyebrows. The hair was parted in the middle, and plastered down, but he was not in evening clothes, as were the men to whose conversation I had been listening. He shook hands cordially with his friend, nodded to the good-looking young man, and called to the waiter to bring him a chair, those near by being all occupied. While waiting for the chair to be brought, he suddenly caught sight of me, evidently in recognition, for he turned quickly and spoke in a low tone to his friend, who at once glanced in my direction. All this! "felt" rather than saw, for I was not looking directly at the two men. Where had Paulton seen me before? That was the first thought that occurred to me, and of course I could not answer it. I had no recollection of having ever seen him previously. Suddenly, he crossed over to me. "Mr. Richard Ashton, I think?" he said in a genial tone, and with a smile. "Yes," I answered rather stiffly, none too pleased at his addressing me. I certainly had no wish to know him. "My name's Paulton," he said, ignoring my coldness. "I've seen you before. You were pointed out to me one night at the Savoy. I want to introduce my friend. Henderson, let me present you to Mr. Richard Ashton. Mr. Ashton--Mr. Henderson." It was done before I could say anything--before I could avoid it. There was nothing for it, therefore, but to pretend to appear pleased. He asked me what I would drink, and I had to say something--though I hated drinking with the fellow. Put yourself in my place--drinking with a man who had tried in cold blood to kill me, and who had shot an innocent man dead! I felt it had been weak of me not to ignore his greeting and meet his look of recognition with a stony stare. But regret for a mistake was useless now. I had made a false step when I spoke to him, and I couldn't suddenly, apparently for no reason, turn my back upon him.