THE SIAMESE CAT
square-shouldered, with a hard, imperious face, clean of feature, and pale as with a mortal sickness. The thin lips drooping cynically at the corners, the deep parenthetic gravings in either cheek, not only gave the face a cruel look, but bespoke a man tugged of fortune. Both the broad forehead and the heavy-shadowed eyes, alert and thoughtful, were curiously familiar. The stranger smiled.
"Don't know me, do you, Mr. Scarlett?" he said, with the voice of Borkman. "Good-morning."
The surprise brought also a presentiment of disaster. Owen stared, incapable of speech.
"One's beard does make a difference, doesn't it?" said the other, affably. "But I see you know my voice. No way of shaving that off, is there? Unfortunate, because the further west of Suez we go, the more persons know me whom I'm not anxious to meet again. However,
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