“Excepting that they are both tall, with nearly the same color of hair, there is no resemblance whatever between them,” proceeded Richard. “Their faces, their figures, are as opposite as light is from dark. That other, in spite of his handsome features, had the expression at times of a demon, but this one’s expression is the best part of his face. Hallijohn’s murderer had a curious look here, sir.”
“Where?” questioned Mr. Carlyle, for Richard had only pointed to his face generally.
“Well—I cannot say precisely where it lay, whether in the eyebrows or the eyes; I could not tell when I used to have him before me; but it was in one of them. Ah, Mr. Carlyle, I thought, when Barbara told me Thorn was here, it was too good news to be true; depend upon it, he won’t venture to West Lynne again. This man is no more like that other villain than you are like him.”
“Then—as that is set at rest—we had better be going, Richard. You have to see your mother, and she must be waiting in anxiety. How much money do you want?”
“Twenty-five pounds would do, but——” Richard stopped in hesitation.
“But what?” asked Mr. Carlyle. “Speak out, Richard.”
“Thirty would be more welcome. Thirty would put me at ease.”
“You shall take thirty,” said Mr. Carlyle, counting out the notes to him. “Now—will you walk with me to the grove, or will you walk alone? I mean to see you there in safety.”
Richard thought he would prefer to walk alone; everybody they met might be speaking to Mr. Carlyle. The latter inquired why he chose moonlight nights for his visits.
“It is pleasanter for travelling. And had I chosen dark nights, Barbara could not have seen my signal from the trees,” was the answer of Richard.