"Now I have two," she murmured softly.

"Two?" said Craven pausing as he lighted his cigarette. "What do
you mean?"

"Wait, I show," she replied and vanished into the house. She was
back in a moment holding in her hand another locket. He took it
from her and moved closer under the lantern to look at it. It hung
from a thick twisted cable of gold, and set round with pearls it
was bigger and heavier than the dainty case O Hara San had hidden
against her heart. For a moment he hesitated, overcoming an
inexplicable reluctance to open it--then he snapped the spring
sharply.

"Good God!" he whispered slowly through dry lips. And yet he had
known, known intuitively before the lid flew back, for it was the
second time that he had handled such a locket--the first he had
seen and left lying on his dead mother's breast.

He stood as if turned to stone, staring with horror at the replica
of his own face lying in the hollow of his hand. The thick dark
hair, the golden brown moustache, the deep grey eyes--all were the
same. Only the chin in the picture was different for it was hidden
by a short pointed beard; so was it in the miniature that was
buried with his mother, so was it in the big portrait that hung in
the dining-room at Craven Towers.

"Who gave you this?" he asked thickly, and O Hara San stared at
him in bewilderment, frightened at the strangeness of his voice.