“Has he big blonde side-whiskers like tusks?” I asked, mindful of the photograph of Goddedaal.

“Certainly not:  why should he?” was the reply.

“Does he write many letters?” I continued.

“God knows,” said Stennis.  “What is wrong with you?  I never saw you taken this way before.”

“The fact is, I think I know the man,” said I.  “I think I’m looking for him.  I rather think he is my long-lost brother.”

“Not twins, anyway,” returned Stennis.

And about the same time, a carriage driving up to the inn, he took his departure.

I walked till dinner-time in the plain, keeping to the fields; for I instinctively shunned observation, and was racked by many incongruous and impatient feelings.  Here was a man whose voice I had once heard, whose doings had filled so many days of my life with interest and distress, whom I had lain awake to dream of like a lover; and now his hand was on the door; now we were to meet; now I was to learn at last the mystery of the substituted crew.  The sun went down over the plain of the Angelus, and as the hour approached, my courage lessened.  I let the laggard peasants pass me on the homeward way.  The lamps were lit, the soup was served, the company were all at table, and the room sounded already with multitudinous talk before I entered.  I took my place and found I was opposite to Madden.  Over six feet high and well set up, the hair dark and streaked with silver, the eyes dark and kindly, the mouth very good-natured, the teeth admirable; linen and hands exquisite; English clothes, an English voice, an English bearing:  the man stood out conspicuous from the company.  Yet he had made himself at home, and seemed to enjoy a certain quiet popularity among the noisy boys of the table d’hote.  He had an odd, silver giggle of a laugh, that sounded nervous even when he was really amused, and accorded ill with his big stature and manly, melancholy face.  This laugh fell in continually all through dinner like the note of the triangle in a piece of modern French music; and he had at times a kind of pleasantry, rather of manner than of words, with which he started or maintained the merriment.  He took his share in these diversions, not so much like a man in high spirits, but like one of an approved good nature, habitually self-forgetful, accustomed to please and to follow others.  I have remarked in old soldiers much the same smiling sadness and sociable self-effacement.

I feared to look at him, lest my glances should betray my deep excitement, and chance served me so well that the soup was scarce removed before we were naturally introduced.  My first sip of Chateau Siron, a vintage from which I had been long estranged, startled me into speech.

“O, this’ll never do!” I cried, in English.

“Dreadful stuff, isn’t it?” said Madden, in the same language.  “Do let me ask you to share my bottle.  They call it Chambertin, which it isn’t; but it’s fairly palatable, and there’s nothing in this house that a man can drink at all.”