"In what way?"
"I thought I saw Tom pass. Tom Heriot," he added in a whisper.
"Oh, but that's impossible, you know, Lake," I said, though I felt my pulses quicken. "All your fancy."
"It was just under that gas-lamp at the corner of Wellington Street," Lake went on. "He was sauntering along as if he had nothing to do, muffled in a coat that looked a mile too big for him, and a red comforter. He lifted his face in passing, and stopped suddenly, as if he had recognised me, and were going to speak; then seemed to think better of it, turned on his heel and walked back the way he had been coming. Charley, if it was not Tom Heriot, I never saw such a likeness as that man bore to him."
My lips felt glued. "It could not have been Tom Heriot, Lake. You know Tom is at the antipodes. We will not talk of him, please. Are you coming home with me?"
"Yes. I was going on to Barlow's Chambers, but I'll come with you instead."
CHAPTER III.
AN EVENING VISITOR.