ity in it that made him start. He could not analyze it, but
it had a haunting note as though it went back somewhere in his own
past. It made him--without any intention of overhearing the burden of
the talk--sit up and listen. It was decidedly the voice of an older
man--perhaps a foreigner. But if this were so, a foreigner who had
lived long in this country, for the accent consisted of a scarcely
perceptible blur. He spoke very slowly and with a cold deliberation
that was unpleasant. It was so a judge might pronounce sentence of
death. It was unemotional and forbidding. Yet there were little
catches in it that reminded Wilson of some other voice which he could
not place.

"My friend," came the voice more distinctly, as though the owner had
risen and now faced the closed doors between the two rooms, "my
friend, the interests I serve are truly different from yours; you
serve sentiment; I, justice and revenge. Yet we shall each receive our
reward in the same battle." He paused a moment. Then he added,

"A bit odd, isn't it, that such interests as yours and mine should
focus at a point ten thousand miles from here?"

"Odd? It's weird! But I'm getting used to such things. I picked up a
chap this morning whose story I wouldn't have believed a year ago. Now
I've learned that most anything is possible--even you."

"I?"

"Yes, you and your heathen army, and your good English, and your
golden idol."

"I object to your use of the word 'heathen,'" the other replied
sharply.

Wilson started from his couch, now genuinely interested. But the two
had apparently been moving out while this fag-end of the conversation
was going on, for their voices died down until they became but a hum.
He fell back again, and before he had time to ponder further Danbury
hurried in with a suit of clothes over his arm.

"Here," he cried excitedly, "try on these. I must be off again in a
hurry. I didn't mean to keep you waiting so long, but we'll make up
the time in the machine."

He tossed out a soft felt hat and blue serge suit. Wilson struggled
into the clothes. Save that the trousers were a bit short, the things
fitted well enough. At any rate, he looked more respectable than in a
lounging robe. The latter he cast aside, and as he did so something
fell from it. It was a roll of parchment. Wilson had forgotten all
about it, and now thrust it in an inside pocket. He would give it back
to Sorez, for very possibly it was of some value. He had not