It was easy to understand why that recognition had not been mutual. A man of the Count’s character would never risk the terrible consequences of turning spy without looking to his personal security quite as carefully as he looked to his golden reward. The shaven face, which I had pointed out at the Opera, might have been covered by a beard in Pesca’s time⁠—his dark brown hair might be a wig⁠—his name was evidently a false one. The accident of time might have helped him as well⁠—his immense corpulence might have come with his later years. There was every reason why Pesca should not have known him again⁠—every reason also why he should have known Pesca, whose singular personal appearance made a marked man of him, go where he might.