his wardrobe, very unlike anything an
Endicott had ever worn. Lacking the elegance and correctness of earlier
days, and of a different character, it was in itself a disguise. He wore
his hair long and thick in the Byronic fashion, and a curly beard
shadowed his lower face. Standing at the glass on the afternoon of the
reception he felt confident that Horace Endicott had fairly disappeared
beneath the new man Dillon. His figure had filled out slightly, and had
lost its mournful stoop; his face was no longer wolfish in its leanness,
and his color had returned, though melancholy eyes marked by deep
circles still betrayed the sick heart. Yet the figure in the glass
looked as unlike Horace Endicott as Louis Everard. He compared it with
the accurate portrait sent out by his pursuers through the press. Only
the day before had the story of his mysterious disappearance been made
public. For months they had sought him quietly but vainly. It was a
sign of their despair that the journals should have his story, his
portrait, and a reward for his discovery.

No man sees his face as others see it, but the difference between the
printed portrait and the reflection of Arthur Dillon in the mirror was
so startling that he felt humbled and pained, and had to remind himself
that this was the unlikeness he so desired. The plump and muscular
figure of Horace Endicott, dressed perfectly, posed affectively,
expressed the self-confidence of the aristocrat. His smooth face was
insolent with happiness and prosperity, with that spirit called the
pride of life. But for what he knew of this man, he could have laughed
at his self-sufficiency. The mirror gave back a shrunken, sickly figure,
somewhat concealed by new garments, and the eyes betrayed a poor soul,
cracked and seamed by grief and wrong; no longer Horace Endicott, broken
by sickness of mind and heart, and disguised by circumstance, but
another man entirely. What a mill is sorrow, thus to grind up an
Endicott and from the dust remold a Dillon! The young aristocrat, plump,
insolent, shallow, and self-poised, looked commonplace in his pride
beside this broken man, who had walked through the abyss of hell, and
nevertheless saved his soul.

He discovered as he gazed alternately on portrait and mirror that a
singular feeling had taken hold of him. Horace Endicott all at once
seemed remote, like a close friend swallowed and obliterated years ago
by the sea; while within himself, whoever he might