Chick had staggered for a moment. The face was like that of Gerald Vaughn, yet not like it. The flowing, black mustache was gone, and there was no sign of it, nor of a beard, through this man’s clear, white skin.
It was, too, like the photographed face of Mortimer Deland, but that was so small as to preclude positive identification.
What most amazed Chick, however, was the fact that he was received without the slightest sign of recognition, without the least betrayal of perturbation, despite that his visit could not possibly have been anticipated.
For all this, nevertheless, Chick instantly came to one positive conclusion—a correct one.[Pg 26]
“He’s my man!” flashed through his mind. “This is Gerald Vaughn—and Mortimer Deland. I’ll stake my life on it.”
While Chick was thus taking his measure, Deland was approaching from an attractively furnished parlor, bowing and smiling.
“Walk in, Mr. Alden,” said he, glancing at the card he still retained in his slender, white hand. “Walk in and have a chair. Let me introduce my wife, Mrs. Brooks.”
Chick again was staggered—even more staggered than before.
The woman who arose to greet him was tall and fair. She was fashionably clad. Her eyes were blue. Her hair was a deep-auburn hue. Her smile was captivating. Her teeth were like pearls.
She bore not the slightest resemblance to Clarissa Vaughn.