John Simpson had a good memory for faces, and though Mr. Darke was handsomely dressed, and looked like a man of ample means, very different from the dilapidated tramp who had called upon him three weeks before, an uneasy suspicion haunted him that this was the man.
“I must satisfy myself,” he said. “I must find out if that is the man who called upon me in Wilton.”
He left his seat, and advanced to where Darius Darke was sitting.
“I beg pardon, sir,” he said, “but I think you called upon me not long since.”
Luckily Darius Darke had noticed his approach (till then he had not seen him) and was on his guard.
“Sare,” he said, in broken English, shrugging his shoulders, “I know you not. I am one Frenchman, who make one leetle visit to New York on business.”
The voice which he assumed was entirely different from his own, and John Simpson was completely deceived.
“I beg your pardon,” he said; “I was mistaken.”
“Oh, don’t mention it, sare,” said the assumed Frenchman, politely.
“I have had a good scare,” said John Simpson, wiping the perspiration off his face. “Of course it couldn’t be the man I thought, but there is certainly a strange resemblance.”