was very young, and all the rest of the family
were men and women, and my so-called parents
were old. Anything is possible of a case like
that?"

"Did you ever doubt——?"

"I told you once, I doubt the marriage of
those two," he replied, throwing up his hands
again, as if he were throwing the unprofitable
subject away. "But here I am in Creation. I
come of no fine family. What does it matter?"

"At least you are Swiss," said Vendale, after
following him with his eyes to and fro.

"How do I know?" he retorted abruptly,
and stopping to look back over his shoulder.
"I say to you, at least you are English. How
do you know?"

"By what I have been told from infancy."

"Ah! I know of myself that way."

"And," added Vendale, pursuing the thought
that he could not drive back, "by my earliest
recollections."

"I also. I know of myself that way—if that
way satisfies."

"Does it not satisfy you?"

"It must. There is nothing like 'it must'
in this little world. It must. Two short words
those, but stronger than long proof or reasoning."

"You and poor Wilding were born in the
same year. You were nearly of an age," said
Vendale, again thoughtfully looking after him as he
resumed his pacing up and down.

"Yes. Very nearly."

Could Obenreizer be the missing man? In
the unknown associations of things, was there
a subtler meaning than he himself thought, in
that theory so often on his lips about the smallness
of the world? Had the Swiss letter
presenting him, followed so close on Mrs.
Goldstraw's revelation concerning the infant
who had been taken away to Switzerland,
because he was that infant grown a man? In
a world where so many depths lie unsounded,
it might be. The chances, or the laws—call
them either—that had wrought out the revival
of Vendale's own acquaintance with Obenreizer,
and had ripened it into intimacy, and had
brought them here together this present winter
night, were hardly less curious; while read by
such a light, they were seen to cohere towards
the furtherance of a continuous and an
intelligible purpose.

Vendale's awakened thoughts ran high, while
his eyes musingly followed Obenreizer pacing up
and down the room, the river ever running to the
tune; "Where shall I rob him, if I can? Where
shall I murder him, if I must?" The secret of
his dead friend was in no hazard from Vendale's
lips; but just as his friend had died of its
weight, so did he in his lighter succession feel
the burden of the trust, and the obligation to
follow any clue, however obscure. He rapidly
asked himself, would he like this man to be
the real Wilding? No. Argue down his
mistrust as he might, he was unwilling to put such
a substitute in the place of his late guileless,
outspoken, childlike partner. He rapidly
asked himself, would he like this man to be
rich? No. He had more power than enough
over Marguerite as it was, and wealth might
invest him with more. Would he like this man
to be Marguerite's Guardian, and yet proved to
stand in no degree of relationship towards her,
however disconnected and distant? No. But
these were not considerations to come between
him and fidelity to the dead. Let him see to
it that they passed him with no other notice
than the knowledge that they had passed
him, and left him bent on the discharge of
a solemn duty. And he did see to it, so soon
that he followed his companion with ungrudging
eyes, while he still paced the room; that
companion, whom he supposed to be moodily
reflecting on his own birth, and not on
another man's—least of all what man's—violent
Death.

The road in advance from Basle to Neuchâtel
was better than had been represented. The
latest weather had done it good. Drivers, both
of horses and mules, had come in that evening
after dark, and had reported nothing more
difficult to be overcome than trials of patience,
harness, wheels, axles, and whipcord. A
bargain was soon struck for a carriage and horses,
to take them on in the morning, and to start
before daylight.

"Do you lock your door at night when
travelling?" asked Obenreizer, standing warming
his hands by the wood fire in Vendale's
chamber, before going to his own.

"Not I. I sleep too soundly."

"You are so sound a sleeper?" he retorted,
with an admiring look. "What a blessing!"

"Anything but a blessing to the rest of the
house," rejoined Vendale, "if I had to be knocked
up in the morning from the outside of my
bedroom door."

"I, too," said Obenreizer, "leave open my
room. But let me advise you, as a Swiss who
knows: always, when you travel in my country,
put your papers—and, of course, your money—
under your pillow. Always the same place."

"You are not complimentary to your
countrymen," laughed Vendale.

"My countrymen," said Obenreizer, with
that light touch of his friend's elbows by way of
Good Night and benediction, "I suppose, are
like the majority of men. And the majority of
men will take what they can get. Adieu! At
four in the morning."

"Adieu! At four."

Left to himself, Vendale raked the logs
together, sprinkled over them the white wood-
ashes lying on the hearth, and sat down to
compose his thoughts. But they still ran high on
their latest theme, and the running of the
river tended to agitate rather than to quiet
them. As he sat thinking, what little disposition
he had had to sleep, departed. He felt
it hopeless to lie down yet, and sat dressed by
the fire. Marguerite, Wilding, Obenreizer,
the business he was then upon, and a thousand
hopes and doubts that had nothing to do with
it, occupied his mind at once. Everything
seemed to have power over him, but slumber.
The departed disposition to sleep kept far
away.