“His name.”

“Brotherson.  A very uncommon person in many respects; quite capable of such an eccentricity, but incapable, I should say, of crime.  He’s a gifted talker and so well read that he can hold one’s attention for hours.  Of his tastes, I can only say that they appear to be mainly scientific.  But he is not averse to society, and is always very well dressed.”

“A taste for science and for fine clothing do not often go together.”

“This man is an exception to all rules.  The one I’m speaking of, I mean.  I don’t say that he’s the fellow seen pottering in the snow.”

“Call up Clausen.”

The manager stepped to the telephone.

Meanwhile, George had advanced to speak to a man who had beckoned to him from the other side of the room, and with whom in another moment I saw him step out.  Thus deserted, I sank into a chair near one of the windows.  Never had I felt more uncomfortable.  To attribute guilt to a totally unknown person—­a person who is little more to you than a shadowy silhouette against a background of snow —­is easy enough and not very disturbing to the conscience.  But to hear that person named; given positive attributes; lifted from the indefinite into a living, breathing actuality, with a man’s hopes, purposes and responsibilities, is an entirely different proposition.  This Brotherson might be the most innocent person alive; and, if so, what had we done?  Nothing to congratulate ourselves upon, certainly.  And George was not present to comfort and encourage me.  He was—­

Where was he?  The man who had carried him off was the youngest in the group.  What had he wanted of George?  Those who remained showed no interest in the matter.  They had enough to say among themselves.  But I was interested—­naturally so, and, in my uneasiness, glanced restlessly from the window, the shade of which was up.  The outlook was a very peaceful one.  This room faced a side street, and, as my eyes fell upon the whitened pavements, I received an answer to one, and that the most anxious, of my queries.  This was the street into which we had turned, in the wake of the handsome stranger they were trying at this very moment to identify with Brotherson.  George had evidently been asked to point out the exact spot where the man had stopped, for I could see from my vantage point two figures bending near the kerb, and even pawing at the snow which lay there.  It gave me a slight turn when one of them—­I do not think it was George—­began to rub his hands together in much the way the unknown gentleman had done, and, in my excitement, I probably uttered some sort of an ejaculation, for I was suddenly conscious of a silence in the room, and when I turned saw all the men about me looking my way.

I attempted to smile, but instead, shuddered painfully, as I raised my hand and pointed down at the street.

“They are imitating the man,” I cried; “my husband and—­and the person he went out with.  It looked dreadful to me; that is all.”