“The coffee-room is for gentlemen staying in the house,” said the waiter.

The stranger took his feet from the fender, and rising slowly, walked toward him.  He was a short man and thin, but there was something so menacing in his attitude, and something so fearsome in his stony brown eyes, that the other, despite his disgust for ill-dressed people, moved back uneasily.

“Brandy and water, hot,” repeated the stranger; “and plenty of it.  D’ye hear?”

The man turned slowly to depart.

“Stop!” said the other, imperiously.  “What’s the name of the landlord here?”

“Mullet,” said the fellow, sulkily.

“Send him to me,” said the other, resuming his seat; “and hark you, my friend, more civility, or ’twill be the worse for you.”

He stirred the log on the fire with his foot until a shower of sparks whirled up the chimney.  The door opened, and the landlord, with the waiter behind him, entered the room, but he still gazed placidly at the glowing embers.

“What do you want?” demanded the landlord, in a deep voice.

The stranger turned a little weazened yellow face and grinned at him familiarly.

“Send that fat rascal of yours away,” he said, slowly.

The landlord started at his voice and eyed him closely; then he signed to the man to withdraw, and closing the door behind him, stood silently watching his visitor.

“You didn’t expect to see me, Rogers,” said the latter.

“My name’s Mullet,” said the other, sternly.  “What do you want?”

“Oh, Mullet?” said the other, in surprise.  “I’m afraid I’ve made a mistake, then.  I thought you were my old shipmate, Captain Rogers.  It’s a foolish mistake of mine, as I’ve no doubt Rogers was hanged years ago.  You never had a brother named Rogers, did you?”

“I say again, what do you want?” demanded the other, advancing upon him.

“Since you’re so good,” said the other.  “I want new clothes, food, and lodging of the best, and my pockets filled with money.”

“You had better go and look for all those things, then,” said Mullet.  “You won’t find them here.”

“Ay!” said the other, rising.  “Well, well—­There was a hundred guineas on the head of my old shipmate Rogers some fifteen years ago.  I’ll see whether it has been earned yet.”

“If I gave you a hundred guineas,” said the innkeeper, repressing his passion by a mighty effort, “you would not be satisfied.”

“Reads like a book,” said the stranger, in tones of pretended delight.  “What a man it is!”

He fell back as he spoke, and thrusting his hand into his pocket, drew forth a long pistol as the innkeeper, a man of huge frame, edged toward him.

“Keep your distance,” he said, in a sharp, quick voice.

The innkeeper, in no wise disturbed at the pistol, turned away calmly, and ringing the bell, ordered some spirits.  Then taking a chair, he motioned to the other to do the same, and they sat in silence until the staring waiter had left the room again.  The stranger raised his glass.