"Mr. Briarfield is now in his room, monsieur. Shall I take to him your card?"
"If you please," I answered mechanically, and handed it to him. In a few moments a waiter came with a message, stating that Mr. Briarfield would be glad to see me. I followed the man, in a state of the utmost bewilderment, and found myself in the presence of Felix before I knew what to say or do. He was so like Francis, whom I thought was lying dead at the Fen Inn, so like the man who passed as Olivia's lover, that for the moment I could do nothing but stare at him. Yet he could be neither of the two, for one was dead and the other I had left behind at Marshminster.
"How are you, Denham?" he said, somewhat surprised at my strange conduct. "And why do you stare so steadily at me?"
"Are you Felix Briarfield?" I gasped out.
"As you see," he answered, raising his eyebrows; "surely you know me well enough to dispense with so foolish a question."
"And your brother?"
"He is at Marshminster, I believe, with Miss Bellin, to whom he is engaged. Why do you ask so strange a question?"
I sat down on the sofa, and buried my face in my hands. Either I was out of my mind or the victim of some horrible hallucination. I certainly had met Francis at the inn, and beheld him dead under its roof. As surely had I seen the man I believed to be Felix at Marshminster. Yet here in Paris I beheld an individual who was neither the dead friend nor the living lover, and he called himself Felix Briarfield.
"I must be mad! I must be mad!" was all I could say for the moment.
"What is the matter, Denham?" asked Briarfield, touching my shoulder. "Are you ill?"