"Oh, your protests won't do any good," said the other, rudely; "the tide runs too strong for you to drive it back with a mop. But I didn't come here to talk politics, Mr. Scarse."
"In that case I must ask you to go." Mr. Scarse was offended. "I have much to do."
"You will have to lay it by then for the time being. I called to tell you that I met a friend of yours to-day--yes, at the meeting."
"Who?"
"That is what I want to hear from your lips. I know who he is from his own. He wears a yellow coat and a crape scarf."
Mr. Scarse's face became grey, and he fell against the wall with staring eyes and extended hands. "I don't know him--I assure you I don't!" he said hoarsely.
"I think you do. He is the man who was in your study at Chippingholt on the night of the murder--the man whom you sent away by train. In a word, Mr. Scarse, he is your brother--your twin brother!"
[CHAPTER XII.]
A STORY OF THE PAST.
The old man sprang up with the light of fury in his pale eyes and flung himself on Van Zwieten. For an instant he was more than a match for the big Dutchman.