riend. It is plain, however, that my presence
is not as welcome as I could have desired."

From the way he spoke I gathered that for some purpose of his own he
had taken, or was pretending to take, offence at my reception of him.
Knowing, therefore, that if I desired to see anything further of his
beautiful companion, an idea which I will confess had more than once
occurred to me, I must exert myself to conciliate him, I hastened to
apologise for the welcome I had given him, explaining that any momentary
hesitation I might have shown was due more to my surprise than to any
intended discourtesy toward himself.

"In that case let us agree to say no more about it," he answered
politely, but with the same expression of cunning upon his face to which
I have referred elsewhere. "You were quite within your rights. I should
have remembered that in England an impromptu visit at one in the
morning, on the part of an acquaintance of a few hours' standing, is
scarcely likely to be well received."

"If you will carry your memory back a few weeks," I said, as I wheeled a
chair up for him, "you will remember that our acquaintance is not of
such a recent date."

"I am rejoiced to hear it," he replied, with a sharp glance at me as he
seated himself. "Nevertheless, I must confess that I fail for the moment
to remember where I had the pleasure of meeting you on that occasion. It
is not a complimentary admission, I will admit; but, as you know, age is
proverbially forgetful, and my memory is far from being what it once
was."

Could the man be pretending, or had the incident really escaped his
memory? It was just possible, of course, that on that occasion my face
had failed to impress itself upon his recollection; but after the hard
things I had said to him on that memorable occasion, I had to confess
it seemed unlikely. Then the remembrance of the drowning man's piteous
cry for help, and the other's demoniacal conduct on the steps returned
to me, and I resolved to show no mercy.

"The occasion to which I refer, Monsieur Pharos," I said, standing
opposite him and speaking with a sternness that in the light of all that
has transpired since seems almost ludicrous, "was an evening toward the
end of March--a cold, wet night when you stood upon the steps below
Cleopatra's Needle, and not only refused help to, but, in a most inhuman
fashion, laughed at, a drowning man."

I half expected that he would offer a vehement denial, or would at l