“Oh, nothing. An arrival is rather an occurrence, though. You can hear him down there now,” he added, tossing his head towards the other end of the porch, “with the women around him.”
In fact, I did catch the deeper sound of a man's voice among the lighter tones, and the voice had a ring to it which was not wholly unfamiliar, although I could not place it.
I threw Farrar a bait.
“He must make friends easily,” I said.
“With the women?—yes,” he replied, so scathingly that I was forced to laugh in spite of myself.
“Let us go in and look at the register,” I suggested. “You may have his name wrong.”
We went in accordingly. Sure enough, in bold, heavy characters, was the name Charles Wrexell Allen written out in full. That handwriting was one in a thousand. I made sure I had seen it before, and yet I did not know it; and the more I puzzled over it the more confused I became. I turned to Farrar.
“I have had a poor cigar passed off on me and deceive me for a while. That is precisely the case here. I think I should recognize your man if I were to see him.”
“Well,” said Farrar, “here's your chance.”
The company outside were moving in. Two or three of the older ladies came first, carrying their wraps; then a troop of girls, among whom was Miss Trevor; and lastly, a man. Farrar and I had walked to the door while the women turned into the drawing-room, so that we were brought face to face with him, suddenly. At sight of me he halted abruptly, as though he had struck the edge of a door, changed color, and held out his hand, tentatively. Then he withdrew it again, for I made no sign of recognition.