“The blarsted fog is coming down fast.”

For some time the two men in the little back room sat silent; then one of them leaned over:  “She might have asked you that question, eh, Joe?” The speaker’s eyes had turned again to the picture.

The smaller man drew back; a shiver seemed to run over him.  “They’re a long while about the steak,” he murmured.

“For your testimony helped to send him over the water, I believe?” went on the other.

“How do you—?  I ain’t on the stand now, Mr. Steele!” A spark of defiance momentarily came into Dandy Joe’s eyes.

“No; no!” John Steele leaned back, half closed his eyes; again pain, fatigue seemed creeping over him.  Outside sounded the clicking and clinking of glasses, a staccato of guffaws, tones vivace.  “The harm’s been done so far as you are concerned; you, as a factor, have disappeared from the case.”

“Glad to hear you say so, Mr. Steele.  I mean,” the other’s voice was uncertain, cautious, “that’s a matter long since dead and done with.  Didn’t imagine you ever knew about it; because that was before your time; you weren’t even in London then.”  The keen eyes of the listener rested steadily on the other; seemed to read deeper.  “But as for my testimony helping to send him over the water—­”

“Or under!” sotto voce.

Joe swallowed.  “It was true, every word of it.”

“Good!” John Steele spoke almost listlessly.  “Always stick by any one who sticks to you,—­whether a friend, or a pal, or a patron.”

“A patron!” From the other’s lips fell an oath; he seemed about to say something but checked himself; the seconds went by.

“But even if there had been something not quite—­strictly in accord—­which there wasn’t”—­quickly—­“a man couldn’t gainsay what had been said,” Dandy Joe began.

“He could,” indifferently.

“But that would be—­”

“Confessing to perjury?  Yes.”

“Hold on, Mr. Steele!” The man’s eyes began to shine with alarm.  “I’m not on the—–­”

“I know.  And it wouldn’t do any good, if you were.”

“You mean—­” in spite of himself, the fellow’s tones wavered—­“because he’s under the water?”

“No; I had in mind that even if he hadn’t been drowned, your—–­”

“Wot!  Hadn’t—–­”

“A purely hypothetical case!  If the sea gave up its dead”—­Joe stirred uneasily—­“any retraction on your part wouldn’t serve him.  In the first place, you wouldn’t confess; then if you did—­which you wouldn’t—­to employ the sort of Irish bull you yourself used—­you would be discredited.  And thus, in any contingency,” leaning back with folded arms, his head against the wall, “you have become nil!”

“Blest if I follow you, sir!”

“That, also,” said John Steele, “doesn’t matter.  The principal subject of any consequence, relating to you, is the steak, which is now coming.”  As he spoke, he rose, leaving Dandy Joe alone at the table.