Anyway, there was an undeniable, an extraordinary similarity, and even Mr.Portlethorpe had to admit that it was--undoubtedly--there.

He threw off his impatience and irritability, and became interested--and grave.
"That's very strange, and uncommonly important, Lindsey!" he said.
"I--yes, I am certainly inclined to agree with you.

Now, what do you make of it ?" "If you want to know my precise idea," replied Mr.Lindsey, "it's just this--Michael Carstairs and Martin Smeaton are one and the same man--or, I should say, were! That's about it, Portlethorpe." "Then in that case--that young fellow at Dundee is Michael Carstairs' son ?" exclaimed Mr.Portlethorpe.
"And, in my opinion, that's not far off the truth," said Mr.Lindsey.
"You've hit it!" "But--Michael Carstairs was never married!" declared Mr.Portlethorpe.
Mr.Lindsey picked up Gilverthwaite's will and the Smeaton letter, and carefully locked them away in his drawer.
"I'm not so sure about that," he remarked, drily.

"Michael Carstairs was very evidently a queer man who did a lot of things in a peculiar fashion of his own, and--" "The solicitor who sent us formal proof of his death, from Havana, previous to Sir Alexander's death, said distinctly that Michael had never been married," interrupted Mr.Portlethorpe.

"And surely he would know!" "And I say just as surely that from all I've heard of Michael Carstairs there'd be a lot of things that no solicitor would know, even if he sat at Michael's dying bed!" retorted Mr.Lindsey.