“How do, Smith?” he said, in a kindly voice.

The boarding-master leaned against the shop-window and regarded him dumbly.  There was a twinkle in the shipbroker’s eyes which irritated him almost beyond endurance, and in the doorway Mr. Kybird—­his face mottled with the intensity of his emotions—­stood an unwelcome and frantic witness of his shame.

“You’re not well, Smith?” said Mr. Swann, shaking his head at him gently.  “You look like a man who has been doing too much brain-work lately.  You’ve been getting the better of some-body, I know.”

Mr. Smith gasped and, eyeing him wickedly, strove hard to recover his self-possession.

“I’m all right, sir,” he said, in a thin voice.  “I’m glad to see you’re looking a trifle better, sir.”

“Oh, I’m quite right, now,” said the other, with a genial smile at the fermenting Mr. Kybird.  “I’m as well as ever I was.  Illness is a serious thing, Smith, but it is not without its little amusements.”

Mr. Smith, scratching his smooth-shaven chin and staring blankly in front of him, said that he was glad to hear it.

“I’ve had a long bout of it,” continued the ship-broker, “longer than I intended at first.  By the way, Smith, you’ve never spoken to anybody of that business, of course?”

“Of course not, sir,” said the boarding-master, grinding his teeth.

“One has fancies when one is ill,” said Mr. Swann, in low tones, as his eye dwelt with pleasure on the strained features of Mr. Kybird.  “I burnt the document five minutes after you had gone.”

“Did you, reely?” said Mr. Smith, mechanically.

“I’m glad it was only you and the doctor that saw my foolishness,” continued the other, still in a low voice.  “Other people might have talked, but I knew that you were a reliable man, Smith.  And you won’t talk about it in the future, I’m quite certain of that.  Good afternoon.”

Mr. Smith managed to say, “Good afternoon,” and stood watching the receding figure as though it belonged to a species hitherto unknown to him.  Then he turned, in obedience to a passionate tug at his coat sleeve from Mr. Kybird.

“Wot ’ave you got to say for yourself?” demanded that injured person, in tones of suppressed passion.  “Wot do you mean by it?  You’ve made a pretty mess of it with your cleverness.”

“Wonderful old gentleman, ain’t he?” said the discomfited Mr. Smith.  “Fancy ‘im getting the better o’ me.  Fancy me being ’ad.  I took it all in as innercent as you please.”

“Ah, you’re a clever fellow, you are,” said Mr. Kybird, bitterly.  “’Ere’s Amelia lost young Nugent and ’is five ’undred all through you.  It’s a got-up thing between old Swann and the Nugent lot, that’s wot it is.”

“Looks like it,” admitted Mr. Smith; “but fancy ’is picking me out for ’is games.  That’s wot gets over me.”

“Wot about all that money I paid for the license?” demanded Mr. Kybird, in a threatening manner.  “Wot are you going to do about it?”