him prisoner was lifting, rolling away, closing back again,
preparatory to final disappearance. Having found the case, he
put a cigarette between his lips and raised his hand at the
moment that the stranger drew a match across his box.

For a second each stared blankly at the other's face, suddenly
made visible by the lifting of the fog. The match in the
stranger's hand burned down till it scorched his fingers, and,
feeling the pain, he laughed and let it drop.

"Of all odd things!" he said. Then he broke off. The
circumstance was too novel for ordinary remark.

By one of those rare occurrences, those chances that seem too
wild for real life and yet belong to no other sphere, the two
faces so strangely hidden and strangely revealed were identical,
feature for feature. It seemed to each man that he looked not
at the face of another, but at his own face reflected in a
flawless looking-glass.

Of the two, the stranger was the first to regain self-possession.
Seeing Chilcote's bewilderment, he came to his rescue with
brusque tactfulness.

"The position is decidedly odd," he said. "But after all, why
should we be so surprised? Nature can't be eternally
original; she must dry up sometimes, and when she gets a good
model why shouldn't she use it twice?" He drew back,
surveying Chilcote whimsically. "But, pardon me, you are
still waiting for that light!"