at all?'

'Resemblance?' repeated Mr Bethany in a flat voice, and without
raising his face again to meet Lawford's direct scrutiny.
'Resemblance to whom?'

'To me? To me, as I am?'

'But even, my dear fellow (forgive my dull old brains!), even if
there was just the faintest superficial suggestion of--of that;
what then?'

'Why,' said Lawford, 'he's buried in Widderstone.'

'Buried in Widderstone?' The keen childlike blue eyes looked
almost stealthily up across the book; the old man sat without
speaking, so still that it might even be supposed he himself was
listening for a quiet distant footfall.

'He is buried in the grave beside which I fell asleep,' said
Lawford; 'all green and still and broken,' he added faintly. 'You
remember,' he went on in a repressed voice--'you remember you
asked me if there was anybody else in sight, any eavesdropper?
You don't think--him?'

Mr. Bethany pushed the book a few inches away from him. 'Who, did
you say--who was it you said put the thing into your head? A
queer friend surely?' he paused helplessly. 'And how, pray, do
you know,' he began again more firmly, 'even if there is a
Sabathier buried at Widderstone, how do you know it is this