"What's the matter?"
Mr. Howitt dropped back on to his seat. He took out his handkerchief to wipe his forehead. His smile, which had changed into a stare of terror on its reappearance, assumed a sickly hue.
"Nothing. Only a curious similarity."
"Similarity? What do you mean?"
Whatever Mr. Howitt might mean, every time the stranger opened his mouth it seemed to give him another shock. It was a moment or two before he regained sufficient control over himself to enable him to answer,
"Your voice reminds me of one which I used to hear. It's a mere fugitive resemblance."
"Whose voice does mine remind you of?"
"A friend's."
"What was his name?"
"His name was — Cookson."
Mr. Howitt spoke with a perceptible stammer.
"Cookson? I see."
There was silence. For some cause, Mr. Howitt seemed on a sudden to have gone all limp. He sat in a sort of heap on his chair. He smoothed his hands together, as if with unconscious volition. His sickly smile had degenerated into a fatuous grin. His shifty eyes kept recurring to the stranger's face in front of him. It was the stranger who was the next to speak.
"Did you hear what those men were talking about?"
"Yes."
"They were talking of murders."
"Yes."
