He suddenly paused in his excited narrative. Valentine had moved his position slightly and was now standing almost immediately under the gas-lamp that lit the glass door.
"You—you are relation of him?" he said. "You come to see him?"
"I have come to see him, certainly," said Valentine. "But I am no relation of his. This gentleman," and he pointed to Julian, "knew him well, and wished to look at him once more."
The landlord seemed puzzled. He glanced from Valentine to Julian, then back again to Valentine.
"But," he began, once more addressing himself to the latter, "you are like—there is something; when the poor gentleman fell on the bed and died he had your eyes. Yes, yes, you are relation of him."
"No," Valentine said; "you are mistaken."
"I should think so," exclaimed Julian. "Poor Marr's face was as utterly different from yours, Valentine, as darkness is different from light."
"No, no; it is not the eyes of the gentleman," the landlord continued, leaning forward through his window, and still violently scrutinizing Valentine,—"it is not the eyes. But there is something—the voice, the manner—yes, I say there is something, I cannot tell."
"You are dreaming, my friend," Valentine calmly interposed. "Now, Julian, what do you want to do?"
Julian came forward and leant his arm on the counter.