Reentering the library, the servant found Vernet, his cheeks flushed, his eyes ablaze with excitement, standing before an easel which upheld a life-sized portrait—a new portrait, recently finished and just sent home, and as like the original, as he had appeared on yesterday, as a picture could be like life.
When the servant had delivered his message, and without paying the slightest heed to its purport, Vernet demanded, almost fiercely:
“Who is the original of that portrait?”
“That, sir,” said the servant, “is Mr. Alan Warburton.”
CHAPTER XXI.
A PROMISE TO THE DYING.
Paying no further heed to the servant, and much to the surprise of that functionary, Van Vernet turned his gaze back upon the picture, and looked long and intently, shifting his position once or twice to obtain a different view. Then taking up his hat, he silently left the house, a look of mingled elation and perplexity upon his face.
“It’s the same!” he thought, as he hurried away; “it’s the same face, or a most wonderful resemblance. Allow for the difference made by the glazed cap, the tattoo marks and the rough dress, and it’s the very same face! It seems incredible, but I know that such impossibilities often exist. What is there in common between Mr. Alan Warburton, aristocrat, and a nameless sailor, with scars upon his face and blood upon his hands? The same face, certainly, and—perhaps the same delicate hands and dainty feet. It may be only a resemblance, but I’ll see this Alan Warburton, and I’ll solve the mystery of that Francoise hovel yet.”