There was something oddly familiar in the face and voice of the Italian.  Quentin sat with him for an hour, listening with puzzled ears to the conversation that went on between him and Saxondale.  On several occasions he detected a curious, searching look in the Italian’s dark eyes, and was convinced that the prince also had the impression that they had met before.  At last Quentin, unable to curb his curiosity, expressed his doubt.  Ravorelli’s gaze was penetrating as he replied, but it was perfectly frank.

“I have the feeling that your face is not strange to me, yet I cannot recall when or where I have seen you.  Have you been in Paris of late?” he asked, his English almost perfect.  It seemed to Quentin that there was a look of relief in his dark eyes, and there was a trace of satisfaction in the long breath that followed the question.

“No,” he replied; “I seem in some way to associate you with Brazil and the South American cities.  Were you ever in Rio Janeiro?”

“I have never visited either of the Americas.  We are doubtless misled by a strange resemblance to persons we know quite well, but who do not come to mind.”

“But isn’t it rather odd that we should have the same feeling?  And you have not been in New York?” persisted Phil.

“I have not been in America at all, you must remember,” replied the prince, coldly.

“I’d stake my soul on it,” thought Quentin to himself, more fully convinced than ever.  “I’ve seen him before and more than once, too.  He remembers me, even though I can’t place him.  It’s devilish aggravating, but his face is as familiar as if I saw him yesterday.”

When they parted for the night Ravorelli’s glance again impressed the American with a certainty that he, at least, was not in doubt as to where and when they had met.

“You are trying to recall where we have seen one another,” said the prince, smiling easily, his white teeth showing clearly between smooth lips.  “My cousin visited America some years ago, and there is a strong family resemblance.  Possibly you have our faces confused.”

“That may be the solution,” admitted Phil, but he was by no means satisfied by the hypothesis.

In the cab, later on, Lord Bob was startled from a bit of doze by hearing his thoughtful, abstracted companion exclaim: 

“By thunder!”

“What’s up?  Forgot your hat, or left something at the club?” he demanded, sleepily.

“No; I remember something, that’s all.  Bob, I know where I’ve seen that Italian prince.  He was in Rio Janeiro with a big Italian opera company just before I left there for New York.”

“What!  But he said he’d never been in America,” exclaimed Saxondale, wide awake.

“Well, he lied, that’s all.  I am positive he’s the man, and the best proof in the world is the certainty that he remembers me.  Of course he denies it, but you know what he said when I first asked him if we had met.  He was the tenor in Pagani’s opera company, and he sang in several of the big South American cities.  They were in Rio Janeiro for weeks, and we lived in the same hotel.  There’s no mistake about it, old man.  This howling swell of to-day was Pagani’s tenor, and he was a good one, too.  Gad, what a Romeo he was!  Imagine him in the part, Bob.  Lord, how the women raved about him!”