Seymour was not away longer than he had anticipated. Only thirty-five minutes had elapsed before a cab drove up to the house in Belgrave Square, from which descended a tall man guised as a magician. It was not a particularly original dress, but it thoroughly served the purpose which Seymour had in hand. He wore a long red cloak, coming down to his heels, the hem of which was embroidered with queer signs and symbols. On his head was a black velvet skull cap, and a long white beard and moustache completed the illusion.

Seymour stood still for a moment, and fumbled about as if to find his card. Then Rigby, effectively disguised as an executioner, came forward and proffered his services.

"It's all right," he whispered. "I have been talking it over with Masefield, and he did not think it would be prudent to meet you here a second time. Besides, we have to be very careful; we are not aware how much Anstruther knows. He might have got to the back of our plot for all we know to the contrary."

"I did not quite catch how he was dressed," Seymour said. "Would you mind telling me what he is wearing?"

Rigby proceeded to explain that Anstruther was rigged out in a costume of some Indian tribe. He could be especially noticed by the exceedingly high plume of eagle's feathers which he was wearing in his headdress. Seymour chuckled aloud.

"I thought it all out as I came along," he said. "When I saw Masefield a little time ago I only wanted to come here more or less out of idle curiosity; but a little idea occurred to me as I called my cab. I am going to thoroughly enjoy myself this evening; in fact, this is the first time I have had an opportunity of mingling with my fellow creatures for three years. But that is not the point. If you keep fairly close to me you will have the chance of seeing how I shall get on Anstruther's nerves presently."

"Do you mean to say you are going to begin at once?" Rigby asked, "or would you not like to see Barmouth first?"

Seymour intimated that there was no hurry, and that the little drama he had in his mind would be best played out at supper time. That meal was intended to be a rather fast and furious affair, where all the guests were supposed to always act up to the characters which they personified.

"Therefore I should very much like to see Barmouth," Seymour said. "If you can arrange a meeting for us in some quiet spot I shall be exceedingly obliged to you."

Rigby went off, with an intimation that he would not be long. He came back presently, and signified that Seymour should follow him. The two proceeded as far as the head of the staircase, and there, in a small room at the end of the corridor, Barmouth stood awaiting Seymour's entrance. No sooner was the latter inside, than his host closed and locked the door. He turned up the light, and snatched his mask from his face. On the impulse of the moment Seymour did the same.

Save for the difference of their coloring, the two men were almost identically alike. Perhaps in the whole world it would have been impossible to find two refined and educated men so hideously and atrociously ugly. One man's eyes were blue, the other one's dark-brown; but this made no difference. All amiability of expression, all frankness and sincerity, seemed to have been literally cut out of their features. Most men would have turned from them with loathing and disgust. They stood there looking at one another, the very image of the Nostalgo posters that London was still discussing so eagerly. As Seymour dropped Barmouth's proffered hand, the latter burst into a bitter laugh.

"No reason to try and flatter ourselves," he said. "When I look at you or you look at me, we both know that we are forever outside the pale of civilized society. We can make the most of an occasion like this, but these happy hours are few and far between."

"Well, do you know, I am not so sure of that," Seymour said. "Let me have a cigarette, and we will discuss the matter together. Do you happen to remember Ferris?"

Barmouth indicated that he remembered Ferris perfectly well.

"In fact, we were all victims of the same ceremony," he said. "What a ghastly business it was! And that fiend of an Anstruther looking on without a drop of pity in his heart for his fellow countrymen, whose sole crime was that they were in the hunt for gold like himself. But I want to try and forget all that. Do you mean to say you have met Ferris?"

"Ferris is at the Great Metropolitan Hotel at the present moment," Seymour explained. "More or less accidentally he ran against Masefield. Jack Masefield happened to mention that he knew me, and there you are. However, I dare say you can get Masefield to tell you the story another time. The point is, that Ferris has discovered a brilliant French surgeon who has operated upon him--he says, quite successfully. He is a mass of plaster and knife marks now, but he says that in the course of a few weeks he will have resumed his normal expression."

A great cry broke from Barmouth. His agitation was something dreadful to witness.

"Cured," he whispered. "Absolutely cured and like other men again. Oh, it seems like a dream; like something too good to be true. To think that you and I, old friend, are going to stand out once more in the broad light of day with no mask needed to conceal our hideousness! You will undergo the operation?"

"Ay, as soon as ever I have done with the Anstruther business," Seymour said in his deep voice. "Once let me see that rascal beyond the power of further mischief, and I place myself in that man's hands at once, if it cost me half my fortune. There is a girl waiting for me, Barmouth--a girl who mourns me as dead. You can see how impossible it was for me to let her know the truth."

"And yet my wife knows the truth," Barmouth said thoughtfully. "Hideous as I am, she refused to give me back my freedom."

"She is a woman of a million," Seymour said, not without emotion; "but then Lady Barmouth discovered the truth. I don't think you ever would have told her on your own initiative."

This was so true that Barmouth had nothing to say in reply. He appeared to be deeply immersed in thought. The settled melancholy of his face had given way to an eager, restless expression. He was like a man in the desert who, past all hope, had found aid at the last moment. He paused in his stride and sat down.

"I dare not dwell upon th............