Whitley was uneasy. "Well," he said at last, when he could bear the silence no longer. "I hope you like my looks."
"Your figure is somewhat heavier, but shaving off your beard has made you look some years younger," replied Dick, dryly.
The other started to his feet.
"Don't be uneasy," said Dick, softly resting his hand on one of the revolvers; "keep your seat please."
"I never wore a beard," said the other, as he dropped back on his chair. "You are mistaken."
"Then how did you know the meaning of my note, and why did you answer it in person. You should have sent the right man."
Whitley saw that he had betrayed himself but made one more effort.
"I came out of curiosity," he muttered.
Dick laughed—a laugh that was not good to hear. "I can easily satisfy you," he said; "permit me to tell you a little story."
"The story begins in a little manufacturing town a few miles from Liverpool, England, just three years ago today." Beneath the unwavering eyes of the man leaning on the table Whitley's face grew ghastly and he writhed in his chair.