"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."