“Lord Alloa,” Sir Walter said, reddening with anger.

“It was not,” I cried; “it was his living image, but it was not Lord Alloa. It was someone who recognized me, someone I have seen in the last month. He had scarcely left the doorstep when I rang up Lord Alloa’s house and was told he had come in half an hour before and had gone to bed.”

“Who⁠—who⁠—” someone stammered.

“The Black Stone,” I cried, and I sat down in the chair so recently vacated and looked round at five badly scared gentlemen.