"A very excellent argument," I answered. "Unfortunately, however, it carries with it its own refutation. The mere fact that Brown takes the photograph home to show to his friends goes a long way towards proving that he is still as insular as when he set out. If he did not consider himself of sufficient importance to shut out a portion of Saint Mark's with his voluminous personality, he would not have employed the photographer at all, in which case we are no further advanced than before."
These little sparring-matches were a source of great amusement to us. The Cockney tourist was Miss Trevor's bête noir. And upon this failing my wife and I loved to twit her. On the whole I rather fancy she liked being teased by us.
We had finished our coffee and were still idly watching the people about us when I noticed that my wife had turned a little pale. I was about to remark upon it, when she uttered an exclamation as if something had startled her.
"Good gracious! Dick," she cried, "surely it is not possible. It must be a mistake."
"What is it cannot be possible?" I inquired. "What do you think you see?"
I glanced in the direction she indicated, but could recognize no one with whom I was acquainted. An English clergyman and his daughter were sitting near the entrance to the café, and some officers in uniform were on the other side of them again, but still my wife was looking in the same direction and with an equally startled face. I placed my hand upon her arm. It was a long time since I had seen her so agitated.
"Come, darling," I said, "tell me what it is that troubles you."
"Look," she answered, "can you see the table a little to the right of that at which those officers are seated?"
I was about to reply in the affirmative, but the shock I received deprived me of speech. The person to whom my wife referred had risen from his chair, and was in the act of walking towards us. I looked at him, looked away, and then looked again. No! there was no room for doubt; the likeness was unmistakable. I should have known him anywhere. He was Doctor Nikola; the man who had played such an important part in our life's drama. Five years had elapsed since I had last seen him, but in that time he was scarcely changed at all. It was the same tall, thin figure; the same sallow, clean-shaven face; the same piercing black eyes. As he drew nearer I noticed that his hair was a little more grey, that he looked slightly older; otherwise he was unchanged. But why was he coming to us? Surely he did not mean to speak to us? After the manner in which he had treated us in by-gone days I scarcely knew how to receive him. He on his side, however, was quite self-possessed. Raising his hat with that easy grace that always distinguished him, he advanced and held out his hand to my wife.
"My dear Lady Hatteras," he began in his most conciliatory tone, "I felt sure you would recognize me. Observing that you had not forgotten me, I took the liberty of coming to pay my respects to you."