Before I went to bed a little incident occurred which it may be as well to mention. It will be in the remembrance of the reader that when I discovered the dagger which M. Felix had thrown at Emilia on the occasion of her visit to him, I placed it behind the massive sideboard in the sitting-room, my purpose being to conceal it from prying eyes. Curious to see whether the weapon had been disturbed I took a candle and looked. It was still there, and I was about to move away when my attention was attracted to another object which lay edgewise by its side. This object was a photograph, which had evidently dropped behind the sideboard, and had lain there neglected for some time. Thinking it might be the photograph of M. Felix I managed to nick it forward, and presently was able to reach it with my hand. It was covered with dust, which I blew away, disclosing the picture of a young man with a handsome, prepossessing face. "If this is a likeness of M. Felix," I mused, "it proves how little the features of a man are an index to his character." There was something peculiarly winning in the expression of the face; and there was a smile in the eyes and on the lips. The picture had faded with time, but was still distinct and clear in its outlines. I determined to ask Mrs. Middlemore in the morning whether it was a likeness of M. Felix, and I put it on the table and retired to bed. I had had a long and tiring day, and I slept soundly. At eight o'clock I jumped up, ready and eager to resume the task upon which I was engaged. I had almost finished dressing when my eyes fell upon the picture I had found upon the previous night, and I took it again in my hand and examined it by the morning's light. Looking at the back of the card I saw some writing there, the name of a man and a date which fixed the time at nineteen years ago. The name was "Gerald Paget."

I was inexpressibly relieved. The picture, then, was not that of M. Felix, but of Emilia's husband. I was glad to possess it, and glad also of the mute evidence it presented, denoting that the original must have been of a frank and honest nature. I put it in my pocket without scruple; intrinsically the portrait was of no value, and I considered myself entitled to appropriate it. To make sure, however, that the likeness was not that of M. Felix, I showed it to Mrs. Middlemore, without informing her how I had become possessed of it. She had never seen it, she said, and it was not a portrait of M. Felix, who was a different kind of man. Satisfied on this point I went out with Sophy to hire a servant to take her place in her absence. We had no difficulty in obtaining one; as Sophy had said, we could have obtained a score, and we picked out the nicest and most amenable, the choice being Sophy's, upon whose judgment in this selection it was safest to depend. The new domestic being officially installed in Mrs. Middlemore's kitchen, I gave that worthy woman "something on account," and bade her good-morning, and told her that Sophy and I would probably be absent for two or three weeks.

"You'll take care of 'er, sir, I'm sure," said Mrs. Middlemore.

"You need have no anxiety," I replied. "She will be quite safe with me."

Before these words were exchanged I had asked Sophy whether she was still of the same mind as she had been on the previous evening.

"'Course I am," said Sophy. "I wouldn't give it up for nothink you could orfer me."

She had given herself "a good scrub," and had tidied her hair, and I was surprised at the difference this made in her appearance.

"Now, Sophy," I said, after I had bidden Mrs. Middlemore good-by, "here are four sovereigns. Go to some wardrobe shop where you are not known, and buy a complete outfit of second-hand decent clothes, stockings, petticoats, boots, and everything you wear, and come to my rooms in them at half-past one. Be careful that you choose neat clothing, nothing showy or conspicuous; the way you are dressed the next time I see you will prove whether you understand what it is I wish you to do."

"You sha'n't find fault with me," said Sophy, with tears in her eyes. "I never thought I should 'ave sech a slice of luck as this."

At noon I was in my chambers, having arranged with the editor of the Evening Moon for another absence from duty. Bob Tucker was to come at one, and I employed the intervening minutes in setting things right in my rooms. I should have liked to go to Emilia for the purpose of showing her the picture I had found, and of receiving confirmation that it was a portrait of her husband, but I had not the time. The chimes of Westminster had just proclaimed the half-hour when I heard a knock at the outer door of my chambers. "Bob is early," I thought, and I went and opened the door. A stranger confronted me, a middle-aged man, with sandy hair and light fluffy whiskers, and of a rather ponderous build.

"I have come to see Mr. Agnold," said the stranger.

"He is busy," I replied, testily, "and cannot be seen." I did not know the man, and the business I had to transact was too important for interruption.

"I will wait," said the stranger, coolly.

"It will be useless waiting," I said. "Mr. Agnold cannot be seen to-day."

"I will wait till to-morrow," said the stranger, pulling his fluffy whiskers, and gazing at me with more than warrantable attention.

"Yes," I said, "call to-morrow, and unless your errand is urgent and personal do not call at all. Mr. Agnold's time is valuable."

I closed the door unceremoniously in his face and re-entered my sitting-room. My behavior is open to an unfavorable construction, I admit, but bachelors living in chambers in the houses roundabout are much annoyed by persons who intrude at all unseasonable hours, and who for the most part turn out to be commercial travellers desirous to show you samples of goods you do not want. But there was another reason in this particular instance for my unceremonious treatment of the uninvited visitor. All the time he was speaking to me I was conscious that he was observing me in a manner which I resented. There was an intentional rudeness in his pertinacious scrutiny which aroused in me a certain anger, which, reasonably or unreasonably, was a guide in my conduct toward him.

I resumed my employment, but my mind was disturbed by the incident, and I could not drive it away. The man could not be a commercial traveller, I reflected, for those individuals are models of pleasantry and politeness, and do everything in their power to win your good graces. What, therefore, could be his object in paying me a visit? Had I done wrong in sending him away without inquiring its nature?

"Confound the fellow!" I said. "He has got into my head and is likely to remain there, a fixture. I suppose he has gone."

I went to the door and threw it open. On a little bench in the lobby outside sat the man, quietly and patiently.

"Not gone!" I cried.

"Not gone," he replied.

"You heard what I said, did you not?"

"Perfectly. You said Mr. Agnold cannot be seen today. Upon which I replied that I would wait till to-morrow."

"To wait here?" I exclaimed.

"Yes, to wait here till to-morrow, or the next day, or the next. In point of fact, to wait till I have had a few minutes' chat with Mr. Agnold."

"I am Mr. Agnold," I said, angrily.

"I knew that all along," he said, with irritating politeness.

"What is it you want with me? Will you detain me long?"

"Not very long; it will depend upon yourself. I come on behalf of Dr. Peterssen."

My anger instantly subsided; I became as cool as my visitor.

"Enter," I said, "and let us get it over. Who is Dr. Peterssen, and what has he got to do with me, or I with him?"

These last words were spoken when my visitor and I were standing face to face in my sitting-room.

"Oh, I am not here to answer questions," said my visitor. "I have a comm............