He was disappointed and a trifle sheepish. Life was full of queer
chances, that was all. No resemblance on earth, no coincidence of
birthplace, could make him believe that Judson Clark, waster,
profligate and fugitive from the law was now sitting up at night
with sick children, or delivering babies.

After a time he remembered the prescription in his hand, and was
about to destroy it. He stopped and examined it, and then carefully
placed it in his pocket-book. After all, there were things that
looked queer. The fellow had certainly evaded that last question
of his.

He made his way, head bent, toward the station.

He had ten minutes to wait, and he wandered to the newsstand. He
made a casual inspection of its display, bought a newspaper and
was turning away, when he stopped and gazed after a man who had
just passed him from an out-bound train.

The reporter looked after him with amused interest. Gregory, too!
The Livingstone chap had certainly started something. But it was
odd, too. How had Gregory traced him? Wasn't there something more
in Gregory's presence there than met the eye? Gregory's visit might
be, like his own, the desire to satisfy himself that the man was or
was not Clark. Or it might be the result of a conviction that it
was Clark, and a warning against himself. But if he had traced him,
didn't that indicate that Clark himself had got into communication
with him? In other words, that the chap was Clark, after all?
Gregory, having made an inquiry of a hackman, had started along the
street, and, after a moment's thought, Bassett fell into line behind