Two or three minutes after the train had started, the elder man leaned forward, moved slightly, and spoke.

“Excuse me, I think your name must be Hilliard.”

“What then?” was the brusque reply.

“You don’t remember me?”

“Scoundrels are common enough,” returned the other, crossing his legs, “but I remember you for all that.”

The insult was thrown out with a peculiarly reckless air; it astounded the hearer, who sat for an instant with staring eyes and lips apart; then the blood rushed to his cheeks.

“If I hadn’t just about twice your muscle, my lad,” he answered angrily, “I’d make you repent that, and be more careful with your tongue in future.  Now, mind what you say!  We’ve a quiet quarter of an hour before us, and I might alter my mind.”

The young man laughed contemptuously.  He was tall, but slightly built, and had delicate hands.

“So you’ve turned out a blackguard, have you?” pursued his companion, whose name was Dengate.  “I heard something about that.”

“From whom?”

“You drink, I am told.  I suppose that’s your condition now.”

“Well, no; not just now,” answered Hilliard.  He spoke the language of an educated man, but with a trace of the Midland accent.  Dengate’s speech had less refinement.

“What do you mean by your insulting talk, then?  I spoke to you civilly.”

“And I answered as I thought fit.”

The respectable citizen sat with his hands on his knees, and scrutinised the other’s sallow features.

“You’ve been drinking, I can see.  I had something to say to you, but I’d better leave it for another time.”

Hilliard flashed a look of scorn, and said sternly—­

“I am as sober as you are.”

“Then just give me civil answers to civil questions.”

“Questions?  What right have you to question me?”

“It’s for your own advantage.  You called me scoundrel.  What did you mean by that?”

“That’s the name I give to fellows who go bankrupt to get rid of their debts.”

“Is it!” said Dengate, with a superior smile.  “That only shows how little you know of the world, my lad.  You got it from your father, I daresay; he had a rough way of talking.”

“A disagreeable habit of telling the truth.”

“I know all about it.  Your father wasn’t a man of business, and couldn’t see things from a business point of view.  Now, what I just want to say to you is this:  there’s all the difference in the world between commercial failure and rascality.  If you go down to Liverpool, and ask men of credit for their opinion about Charles Edward Dengate, you’ll have a lesson that would profit you.  I can see you’re one of the young chaps who think a precious deal of themselves; I’m often coming across them nowadays, and I generally give them a piece of my mind.”

Hilliard smiled.

“If you gave them the whole, it would be no great generosity.”