What was the object of his visit?
The ideas chased one another through his brain.

Was he, too, an avenger?
There was a knock at the door, and the clerk from downstairs ushered in his visitor.

Wrayson could scarcely repress a start.

It was a younger edition of Morris Barnes who stood there, with an ingratiating smile upon his pale face, a trifle more Semitic in appearance, perhaps, but in other respects the likeness was almost startling.

It extended even to the clothes, for Wrayson recognized with a start a purple and white tie of particularly loud pattern.