But the next moment, as Wolf leaned back against the arm of his chair and looked straight into the man’s eyes, there was a startling change in that supercilious face. A flicker, a shadow, a nothing, passed from one to the other; one of those exposures of secret thoughts that seem to bring together levels of consciousness beyond rational thought. It was all over in a moment; and with a quick alteration of his position, and a shuffling of his stick, the lame man recovered his composure.

“Ah yes,” he murmured, with a smiling inclination of his head that resembled the bow of a great gentleman confessing a lapse of memory. “Ah yes, you are perfectly right, Solent. There was another little thing that you might as well attend to while you’re about it. It’s not of any pressing importance; but, as I say, if you have time, and feel energetic, it might be a good thing to jolt the memory of Mr. Torp. Eh? What’s that? Torp, the stonecutter. Torp of Chequers Street. You’ll easily find the fellow. He’s a jack-of-all-trades⁠—does undertaking and grave-digging as well as stone-cutting.”