Raston got out the photograph, and Marton went to the lamp to see it the more plainly. He glanced at first carelessly at it, then his eyes grew large, his attention became fixed. At that moment there was a ring at the door. Marton looked at the clock. "You have a late visitor," he said. "A call to see some sick woman probably. Why do you look so closely at that picture, Marton?" "There is a face here I know. Who is that?" Raston looked. "That is the man with whom Haverleigh is staying. Pratt!" "Pratt?" repeated Marton in a thoughtful tone. "Has he a tattooed star on his cheek just under the cheek bone?" "Yes. And he is tattooed on the arm also--the right arm. I expect he had it done while he was a sailor." "Oh!" said Marton, dryly, "he says he was a sailor." "Not to my knowledge; but he has mentioned something of being an amateur one. Do you know him, Marton?" "If he is the man I think he is, I know him better than you do, Raston!" "Then who is--" Raston had just got thus far, when the landlady opened the door to announce Mr Pratt. "Here is the man himself, Marton." "Marton!" echoed Pratt, who was standing in the doorway. "Yes, Mr--Angel," said Marton, looking straight at him. Pratt stood for just half a moment as though turned into stone. Then he turned on his heel, and went out of the door and down the stairs as swiftly as he was able. Without a word Marton darted after him. By the time he reached the street door Pratt had disappeared in the fog. CHAPTER XII A SURPRISE Raston was astonished when Pratt disappeared so suddenly, and Marton rushed out after him. He went to the door, but his friend was not to be seen. It was little use following, for he did not know which direction the man had taken, and the fog was so thick that he could hardly see the length of his hand before him. The whole of the spur upon which Colester was built was wrapped in a thick white mist, and those who were abroad in the streets ran every chance of being lost. The village was small, but the alleys and streets were tortuous, so there would be no great difficulty in mistaking the way. For over an hour the curate waited, yet Marton did not return. He could only suppose that the detective had followed Pratt, for what purpose he could not divine. Evidently Marton knew something not altogether to Pratt's advantage, and Pratt was aware of this, else he would hardly have disappeared so expeditiously. Moreover, Marton had addressed Pratt as "Angel," which hinted that the American was masquerading under a false name. Still wondering at what was likely to be the outcome of this adventure, Raston placed himself at the door and waited for the return of his friend. But, as time passed, he made sure that the detective, a stranger in the village, had lost his way. "I can't leave him out of doors all night," soliloquised Raston, peering into the fog; "yet I do not know where to look for him. However, his own good sense must have told him not to go too far."