"I have called, sir," observed Mr. Oates, after a preliminary cough, "to speak to you about the late Sir Rupert Pethram."
"Yes?"
"You, sir, I understand, were his lawyer. Is that so?"
"That is so," replied Dombrain, unconsciously dropping into the Americanisms of the speaker.
"A friend of mine, sir," pursued Mr. Oates, after another pause, "was connected, I believe, with the deceased. I allude, sir, to Mrs. Belswin."
"Mrs. Belswin!"
The name so startled Dombrain, that he forgot his intention of keeping his identity concealed from his visitor, and speaking in his natural voice started forward so that his face was clearly seen by Silas. Now Mr. Oates, in addition, to his many other gifts for getting the better of his fellow creatures, possessed a remarkably retentive memory in the matter of faces, and in spite of the alteration Mr. Dombrain had made in his appearance, recognised him at once. This time his nerves did not belie the reputation he gave them, and after a slight start he leaned back in his chair with a slight, dry smile.
"I opinionate," remarked Silas, reflectively, "that I've been on your tracks before."
"No!"
"It was," continued Silas, without taking any notice of the denial, "it was in New Zealand, sir. Dunedin was the city. A healthy gaol, sir, according to the guide books."