It occurred to me that he had recognised in Daphne the original of the Madonna, but that did not explain his scrutiny of me,--a scrutiny that sprang, I was sure, from something more than casual curiosity. Could the confession of the penitent have anything to do with it? Once more I surveyed the person of the old man, and it began to dawn upon me that I had seen him before, but when and where and in what circumstances I failed to recall. I closed my eyes in order to aid my powers of reflection, but still could not solve the problem of his identity. Just as I opened my eyes again to take another view of the confessional box I witnessed a remarkable tableau. The penitent was still proceeding with his whispered story when the priest started to his feet with an impulse that apparently he could not control. Horror was painted in vivid characters on his face as he stood erect and stiff, with his eyes fixed on the distant cloister, while the other man, with his white head bent and his hands piteously clasped, sank low on his knees, a study of humiliation. What terrible secret had been imparted to the priest that he should betray such emotion? For a full minute he remained as rigid as a statue, and then hurriedly quitting the confessional box he beckoned the penitent to follow him. They passed through a small archway leading to some sacristy, and the oaken door concealed them from my view. Then it was that memory came to my aid, and I trembled all over at the revelation it imparted. I turned to my uncle who, absorbed in his book, had not observed the singular scene. "Uncle," I said, and even in my own ears my voice sounded strange; "did you notice an old man kneeling at that confessional box over there?" "I have been at Nuremberg all this time," replied my uncle in tones aggravatingly dry and measured, "and therefore could not see what was passing here. Why do you ask?" "Who do you think he was?" "Answer your own riddle and let me return to the wit of Mephistopheles." "He was the tenant of the mysterious house at Dover." My uncle found my words more interesting than those of Mephistopheles. "You are dreaming, Frank." "No. I am sure that it was he." "So far from Dover? Is it likely he would turn up in this out-of-the-way place?" "It isn't a question of what he is likely to do; it's a question of what he has done. He is here. That's a fact. For aught we know to the contrary he may be an Italian. Now I come to think of it his voice had a foreign accent." "Where is he now?" asked my uncle, looking all around the cathedral. "He went with the priest through that door-way," I answered, and I told him of what had taken place at the confessional box. "What are we to do?" my uncle asked.