‘I could see that well enough, Signor,’ he said, with a certain unpleasant significance in manner. ‘It certainly seems an odd sort of amusement for grown men, this interchange of names. It does not sound very amusing, or profitable either. Still, of course, if the Signor says it was so, why then, without doubt, so it was. But still, I may be stupid—I do not see things quickly—I make hillocks into mountains, very likely, as you English say; but I cannot understand one thing.’ ‘And what may that one thing be?’ ‘I cannot understand how it comes about that your charming sister and my old friend Filippo—who is, I hear, Mr. Torwood—are so strikingly alike. Even for brother and sister—which you say they are not—such a likeness would be remarkable.’ The Italian was staring hard at him, but Tor was on his guard, and his face betrayed nothing. He merely smiled a little. ‘Are you not rather imaginative, Signor?’ ‘Not that I am aware of.’ ‘Well, I don’t know. It seems so to me. I have not observed any striking likeness.’ Signor Pagliadini smiled a pleasant smile. ‘No, Signor; it is quite to be expected that you have not.’ ‘What do you mean, sir?’ Tor liked neither the words nor the tone. ‘I mean that near relatives seldom see likenesses,’ he answered, with a reassuring smile. ‘It is strangers who do that, not intimates.’ Tor was silent, thinking out his plan of action. He was perfectly aware that he was suspected; he already felt in a great measure at this man’s mercy, and he believed him to be, for some unknown reason, his enemy. He dared not make a confidant of a perfect stranger, who might be anything, from a spy of Belassis, upwards; and yet he must endeavour to keep on friendly terms, and if it were possible bind him over to silence. If he were to talk abroad as he was talking here, a catastrophe would be inevitable. ‘Sit down, Signor,’ he said courteously. ‘I see I must have some further talk with you. Let us be frank with one another. Do not be afraid to speak out. Truth is always the best. You believe that I am an impostor—is it not so?’ ‘That is your word, not mine, Signor,’ said the Italian. ‘You know best if the cap fits—as your proverb goes.’ ‘If it is my word,’ returned Tor quickly, ‘it but expresses your own thoughts, unless I have very much misread your face and your words.’ ‘What can I think, in the face of these facts?’ asked the stranger, with the significance of voice and look which Tor greatly disliked. ‘The Signor puts me in a very awkward position by asking such questions.’ Tor laughed, in spite of his inward discomfiture.