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HE dim light served no further than to show that a man was there.

“Well, Jean, what news?” asked the duke, drawing the door close behind him.

“I am not Jean,” said I.

“Then who the devil are you, and what are you doing here?” He advanced and held up the lantern. “Why, what are you hanging about for?” he exclaimed the next moment, with a start of surprise.

“And I am not George Sampson either,” said I composedly. I had no mind to play any more tricks. As I must meet him, it should be in my own character.

The duke studied me from top to toe. He twirled his mustache, and a slight smile appeared on his full lips.

“Yet I know you as George Sampson, I think, sir,” said he, but in an altered tone. He spoke now as though to an equal—to an enemy perhaps, but to an equal.

I was in some perplexity; but a moment later he relieved me.

“You need trouble yourself with no denials,” 110