“Yes. I knew⁠—this other gentleman in Vienna, three years ago. I should judge him younger than you, I think. His eyes were blue, but very similar to yours. His nose was almost identical with yours, but the mouth⁠—n-no. Yet the whole expression⁠—” She broke off, noticing her companion’s sudden pallor. “But you are unwell, sir?”

“No, madam, no! What was your friend’s name?”

“Ferndale,” she answered. “Anthony Ferndale.”

The fan stopped its swaying for a moment.

“Ah!” said Richard.

“Do you know him?” she inquired eagerly.

“Many years ago, madam, I was⁠—acquainted with him. Can you tell me⁠—was he in good spirits when last you saw him?”

She pursed her lips thoughtfully.