For the stranger had turned his face full to the light, and, hiding the lower half of it, had removed his glasses.
”—Roland!”
And the two stood looking into each other’s eyes in the moonlight, and both faces wore any other expression than that of mutual affection. Yet they were brothers.
“Now that you have stepped into my shoes, Hubert, I hope they fit you,” said the elder, drily.
“Oh yes, thanks. Fit—very well indeed. More comfortable, by the bye, after a little further wear,” was the reply, given with a cold, exasperating grin.
“Which wear you won’t get out of them, my friend, in all probability. So look out for speedy squalls.”
“Oh, shan’t I?” replied the younger, his former fears dispelled, now that the mysterious stranger’s identity lay disclosed. “Shan’t I? Who will, then?”
“Why, their rightful owner, of course. Myself, to wit.”
“Good dog, Brag,” jeered the other contemptuously, jerking a stone across the mouth of Smugglers’ Ladder. Better for him had he kept up his prudence a little longer. “And now, Roland, I don’t come blundering in on top of your little arrangements up in Town, and should be very glad if you would kindly not interfere with mine here. In other words, by remaining in this sequestered spot you are spoiling my fun—if you have not already done so, that is.”
“Ah—now we are coming to it. Just answer me one question. What the deuce made you follow me over half the town one night last week, and then pretend you didn’t recognise me?”