He was very pale, and had a restless light in his eye that I did not
remember to have observed before. The anxious lines, too, about his
mouth were deepened, and there was a cavernous, hollow look about his
cheeks and temples which seemed to speak of sickness or sorrow. He had
glanced at me as he came in, but without any gleam of recognition in
his face. Now he glanced again, as I fancied, somewhat doubtfully. When
he did so for the third or fourth time, I ventured to address him.
"Mr. John Dwerrihouse, I think?"
"That is my name," he replied.
"I had the pleasure of meeting you at Dumbleton about three years ago."
Mr. Dwerrihouse bowed.
"I thought I knew your face," he said. "But your name, I regret to say--"
"Langford,--William Langford. I have known Jonathan Jelf since we were
boys together at Merchant Taylor's, and I generally spend a few weeks
at Dumbleton in the shooting-season. I suppose we are bound for the
same destination?"
"Not if you are on your way to the Manor," he replied.
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