ve had their talk there as well as
in Savile Row? These doubts, however, he thrust down with the promise to
himself that, if Julius did not come to him within half an hour, he
would return to him. Yet he had not gone many steps before an unworthy
suspicion shot up and arrested him: Suppose Julius had got rid of him to
have the opportunity of sending a mysterious companion away unseen? But
Jenkins had said he had let no one in, and it was shameful to suspect
both master and man of lying. Yet Lady Mary Fane had distinctly
recognised the man who passed into the Albany courtyard: had he merely
passed through on his unceasing pursuit of something unknown? or were
father and son somehow aware of each other? Between this and that his
mind became a jumble of the wildest conjectures. He imagined many
things, but never conceived that which soon showed itself to be the
fact.

Chapter IX.

An Apparition and a Confession.

He let himself in with his latch-key, went into his dining-room, and sat
down dressed as he was to wait. He listened through minute after minute
for the expected step. The window was open (for the midsummer night was
warm), and all the sounds of belated and revelling London floated
vaguely in the air. Twelve o'clock boomed softly from Westminster, and
made the heavy atmosphere drowsily vibrate with the volume of the
strokes. The reverberation of the last had scarcely died away when a
light, measured footfall made him sit up. It came nearer and nearer, and
then, after a moment's hesitation, sounded on his own doorstep. With
that there came the tap of a cane on the window. With thought and
expectation resolutely suspended, Lefevre swung out of the room and to
the hall-door. He opened it, and stood and gazed. The light of the
hall-lamp fell upon a figure, the sight of which sent the blood in a
gush to his heart, and pierced him with horror. He expected Julius, and
he looked on the man whom he had followed on the crowded pavements some
weeks before,--the man whom the police had long sought for
ineffectually!

"Won't you let me in, Lefevre?" said the man.

The doctor stood speechless, with his eyes fixed: the face and dress of
the person before him were those of Hernando Courtney, but the voice was
the voice of Julius, though it sounded strange and distant, and bore an
accent as of death. Lefevre was involved in a wild turmoil and horror of
surmise, too appalling to be exactly stated to himself; for he sh