“Yes, but I didn’t know what you meant.”

“Didn’t one of the voices sound familiar to you?”

“By Jove, you’re right, come to think of it.  It reminded me of—­”

“Of Victor Nevill,” said Jimmie.  “Benjamin’s companion talked exactly like him, it struck me.”

“That’s it.  Queer, wasn’t it?  But, of course, it was only a coincidence.  Nevill couldn’t have been there.”

“No; I hardly think so,” Jimmie answered, slowly and seriously.

“I’m positive about it,” exclaimed Bertie.  “Surely you wouldn’t insinuate that Nevill is a—­”

“No, I can’t believe him to be that—­a tout for money-lenders.  But it was wonderfully like his voice.”

“Don’t get such an idea into your head,” protested Bertie.  “Nevill was only in the place twice, and then he went to oblige me.  He hates the Jews, and won’t have anything to do with them himself.  And he don’t need to.  He has a settled income of two or three thousand a year.”

“Yet he refused to help you, and pleaded that he was hard up?”

“Yes,” assented Bertie, “but he didn’t put it exactly in that way.  He explained how he was fixed, and I quite understand it.  He must save all his spare cash just now.  He is going to be married soon.”

“That’s news,” said Jimmie.  “I hadn’t an inkling of it.”

“Nor I,” declared Bertie, “until a week ago.  I was dining with Nevill, and he had taken half a bottle too much, you know.  That’s when he let it out.”

“Who is the girl?”

“A Miss Foster, I believe.  She lives somewhere near Kew Bridge, in a big, old-fashioned house on the river.  I suppose her father has money.  From what Nevill said—­”

A sharp exclamation fell from Jimmie’s lips, and his face expressed blank astonishment.

“By Jove!  Nevill engaged to Madge Foster?” he cried.

“That’s the girl, and he’s going to marry her!”

Jimmie turned away to hide his feelings.  This was a most astounding piece of news, but under the circumstances he was satisfied that it must be true.  So Nevill knew Miss Foster!  That in itself was a strange revelation!  And suddenly a vague suspicion came into his mind—­a chilling doubt—­as he recalled Nevill’s demeanor, and certain little actions of his, on the night when Jack Vernon’s French wife confronted him under the trees of Richmond Terrace.  Had a jealous rival planned that Diane should be there?—­that she should come to life again to blast the happiness of the man who believed her dead?  He tried to put away the suspicion, but it would not be stifled; it grew stronger.

“I say, old man, what’s gone wrong?” asked Bertie.  “You’re acting queerly.  I hope you’ve not been hit in that quarter.”

Jimmie faced around and laughed.

“No fear, Bertie,” he said.  “I’m not a marrying man.  I wouldn’t know Miss Foster from your precious Flora, for I’ve never seen either of them.”  He suddenly remembered the photograph Jack had shown him, and his cheeks flushed.  “It gave me a bit of a start to hear that Nevill was going to be married,” he added, hastily.  “I thought he was too fond of a bachelor’s existence to tie himself to a wife.”