He was a fine-looking old man, with deep-set dark eyes, a pale face that bore many traces of physical and mental suffering, and a long white beard.
"Be welcome, sir," he said.

"It is long since we have seen a white face in these wilds, and yours, if I am not mistaken, is that of an Englishman.

There has been but one Englishman here for twelve years, and he, I grieve to say, was an outcast flying from justice," and he bowed again and stretched out his hand.
I looked at him, and then of a sudden his name flashed back into my mind.

I took his hand.
"How do you do, Mr.Carson ?" I said.
He started as though he had been stung.
"Who told you that name ?" he cried.

"It is a dead name.