s opponent politely; "perhaps it is
merely curiosity. But as a matter of fact, I think I have had the
pleasure of meeting you before, and I never like to forget old friends."

Mr. Wilfer grunted.

"Come, let me think," Vermont continued, "were you ever at Canterbury?"

Mr. Wilfer started violently.

"Ah! I am on the right track. Yes, I remember now; it was a little inn
in the summer time, a beautiful moonlight night."

"Wasn't me," snarled Wilfer, though his face was pale.

"I thought you were there," said his tormentor as cheerfully and
triumphantly as if the other had admitted it. "You're not a good liar,"
he continued. "If a man can't do that sort of thing well, he'd better
stick to the truth. At a little inn in Canterbury. Yes, I remember it
all now. I'm glad my memory does not play me tricks." His grasp
tightened on Wilfer's sleeve. "I don't like tricks," he purred. "How
strange that we should meet again. I think at that time you were an
artist; yes, that is what you called yourself, and there was a pretty
little girl with you, and you called her your wife. Oh, yes, my friend,
you were good at 'calling' things."

"Look here," growled Wilfer, getting his word in at last. "You just stow
it, I don't know you----"

"No, I know you don't," said his companion imperturbably, "But you will;
oh, yes, you will! Let us go back to Canterbury, where you manufactured
such beautiful pictures."

Wilfer moved uneasily.

"Beautiful pictures," continued the mocking voice, "all by Rubens and
Raphael and Titian. I shouldn't be surprised if that was one of yours I
saw at the Countess of Merivale's to-day, the 'Portrait of a gentleman,'
sold for 300 pounds. There was a warranty with it, signed, sealed and
delivered by a Mr. Johann Wilfer."

"I didn't, it wasn't," the man stuttered, his face almost green in hue,
his voice trembling with anger and fear.

Mr. Vermont smiled. He had his man safe and sound.

"Who the fiend are you?" commenced Wilfer, recovering himself; but
Vermont's smooth voice interrupted him.

"I was right, I see! What a strange coincidence, Mr. Wilfer, that I
should see your really admirable Rubens in the afternoon, and run
against--or perhaps I should say, knock you down--in the evening."

Mr. Wilfer was goaded to desperation.

"Look here," he almost shouted, "I don't care if you're the old 'un
himself; but that's enough of your jaw. What's your game anyhow? S'pose
you did see me in a pub at Canterbu