Mr. Wilfer lessened his movements.

“Ah!” continued the suave voice.  “So you decide to take things quietly.  Wise man!  Now have the goodness to rise and let me see to whom I have the pleasure of speaking.”

Whereupon our friend, Mr. Jasper Vermont, released Johann’s throat from the pressure of his knee—­for it was by this means he had controlled the other’s movements—­and allowed him to rise to his feet.  It was a very sullen and altogether puzzled individual that stood waiting, uncertain whether to listen to his captor’s next words or to make his escape.

Jasper eyed him as a cat does a mouse, on the watch for the slightest attempt to move.

“So!” he said, as he took out his cigar-case, and drew forth one of Leroy’s choice Regalias.  “So!  Now we are on our feet again, we look—­well, I must say, none the less a ruffian.”

The man turned savagely as if about to run away, but Jasper was too quick for him; with a grip of steel he caught hold of the other’s arm.

“Not so fast,” he said quietly.  “What is your name, my friend?”

“What’s that to you?” queried Mr. Wilfer naturally enough, as he settled his ragged scarf, which, during the struggle, had become uncomfortably tightened.

“That is my affair,” replied his 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.”