"Who is that?" whispered the voice.
"John Purdie--wanting to see Mr. Levendale," he answered promptly.
The door was just as promptly opened, and as Purdie stepped within was as
quickly closed behind him. At the same instant the click of a switch
heralded a flood of electric light, and he started to see a man standing
at his side--a man who gave him a queer, deprecating smile, a man who was
not and yet who was Levendale.
"Gracious me!" exclaimed Purdie, "it isn't--"
"Yes!" said Levendale, quietly. "But it is, though! All right, Purdie--
come this way."
Purdie followed Levendale into a small room on the right of the hall--a
room in which the remains of a cold, evidently impromptu supper lay on a
table lighted by a shaded lamp. Two men had been partaking of that supper,
but Levendale was alone. He gave his visitor another queer smile, and
pointed, first to a chair and then to a decanter.
"Sit down--take a drink," he said. "This is a queer meeting! We haven't
seen each other since--"
"Good God, man!" broke in Purdie, staring at his host. "What's it all
mean? Are you--disguised?"
Levendale laughed--ruefully--and glanced at the mean garments which Mrs.
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