e had read Nelson's shilling edition of the
Life of Sir Henry Hawkins. He had read with amazement the story of
British credulity expressed in the Tichborne Case. How Arthur Orton, a
butcher, scarcely able to write, had imposed himself on the Public as
Roger Tichborne, a young aristocrat of good education.

He contrasted his own position with Orton's.

He was absolutely unassailable.

He went to the cigar box, chose a cigar and lit it.

There was the question of hand writing! That suddenly occurred to him,
confronting his newly formed plans. He would have to sign cheques,
write letters. A typewriter could settle the latter question, and as
for the signature, he possessed a sample of Rochester's, and would have
to imitate it. At the worst he could pretend he had injured his
thumb--that excuse would last for some time. "There's one big thing
about the whole business," said he to himself, "and that is the chap's
eccentricity. Why, if I'm shoved too hard, I can pretend to have lost my
memory or my wits--there's not a blessed card I haven't either in my
hand or up my sleeve, and if worst comes to worst, I can always prove my
identity and tell my story." He was engaged with thoughts like these
when the door opened and the servant, bearing a card on a salver,
announced that Mr. Voles, the gentleman who had called earlier in the
day, had arrived.

"Bring him in," said Victor. The servant retired and returned
immediately ushering in Voles, who entered carrying his hat before him.
The stranger was a man of fifty, a tubby man, dressed in a black frock
coat, covered, despite the summer weather, by a thin black overcoat with
silk facings. His face was evil, thick skinned, yellow, heavy nosed, the
hair of the animal was jet black, thin, and presented to the eyes of the
gazer a small Disraeli curl upon the forehead of the owner.

The card announced:

MR. A. S. VOLES
12B. Jermyn Street

Voles himself, and unknown to himself, announced a lot of other things.

Victor Jones had a sharp instinct for men, well whetted by experience.

He nodded to the newcomer, curtly, and without rising from his chair;
the servant shut the door and the two men were alone.

Just as a dog's whole nature livens at the smell of a pole cat, so did
Jones' nature at the sight of Voles. He felt this man to be an enemy.

Voles came to the table and placed his hat upon it. Then he turned, went
to the door and opened it to see if the servant w