It was late at night before he returned to his hotel. As he went into the hall he saw a stranger sitting there in a lounging attitude reading the Sydney _News_. He was a thin, small-sized man, with a foreign air, and quick, restless manner. His features were small, a heavy beard and mustache covered his face, his brow was low, and his eyes black and twinkling. A sharp, furtive glance which he gave at Brandon attracted the attention of the latter, for there was something in the glance that meant more than idle curiosity. Even in the midst of his cares Brandon’s curiosity was excited. He walked with assumed indifference up to the desk as though looking for the key of his room. Glancing at the hotel book his eye ranged down the column of names till it rested on the last one. “_Pietro Cigole_.” --Cigole! the name brought singular associations. Had this man still any connection with Potts? The words of his father’s letter rushed into his mind--“His arm may reach even to the antipodes to strike you. Be on your guard. Watch every one. He has some dark plan against you.” With these thoughts in his mind Brandon went up to his room. CHAPTER III. “A MAN OVERBOARD!” In so small a town as Sydney then was Brandon could hope to learn all that could be learned about Cigole. By casual inquiries he learned that the Italian had come out in the _Rival_, and had given out that he was agent for a London house in the wool business. He had bought up a considerable quantity which he was preparing to ship. Brandon could not help feeling that there was some ruse about this. Yet he thought, on the other hand, why should he flaunt his name so boldly before the world? If he is in reality following me why should he not drop his name? But then, again, why should he? Perhaps he thinks that I can not possibly know any thing about his name. Why should I? I was a child when Despard was murdered. It may be merely a similarity of names. Brandon from time to time had opportunities of hearing more about Cigole, yet always the man seemed absorbed in business. He wondered to himself whether he had better confide his suspicions to Mr. Compton or not. Yet why should he? The old man would become excited, and feel all sorts of wild hopes about discovering his wife and son. Could it be possible that the Italian after so many years could now afford any clew whatever? Certainly it was not very probable. On the whole Brandon thought that this man, whoever he was or whatever his purpose might be, would be encountered best by himself singly. If Mr. Compton took part he would at once awaken Cigole’s fears by his clumsiness.