‘I repeat that I have not the honour of your acquaintance,’ rejoined Harland, reddening, however, to the brows. ‘Nor do I know to what you refer. It is a case of mistaken identity, sir, and as I am in a hurry, perhaps you will kindly let me pass on.’ But Will Farrell planted himself right in the doorway. ‘No! I’ll be d--d if I will--not until you have told me the truth. If you have forgotten _me_, I remember _you_ well enough, ‘_Mr Horace Cain_.’ ‘For God’s sake, hold your tongue, man,’ cried Godfrey, thrown off his guard; ‘or come with me where we can talk in privacy.’ ‘Ah! I thought that would freshen your memory,’ said the other, with a harsh laugh. Harland did not know at first what to do. He had recognised this man at once as a former companion at the desk, and his turning up at this inopportune moment might prove the most unlucky move in the world. At all risks he must be conciliated, and kept quiet. But Harland felt less ready with a lie than usual. He, who was seldom without one at the tip of his tongue, was cowed and nervous by Farrell’s allusion to the past, and could hardly decide what to do, or say. But in another moment his natural aptitude for deceit had returned to him. ‘Of course, I remember you now, Farrell, though I must confess that at first your face did not seem familiar to me. It is some years since we met, and you have changed, as doubtless _I_ have, too.’ ‘It is to be hoped so,’ interrupted Farrell, with an unpleasant sneer. ‘But I am always glad to meet an old acquaintance,’ continued Godfrey, ignoring the interruption. ‘I shall be pleased to have a talk with you over old times There is a little place near here where they know me. Will you walk round and have something to drink?’ But the bait did not seem to take. ‘I don’t drink so early in the morning,’ replied Farrell; ‘besides, I have business here.’ ‘What is your business?’ ‘Well, I don’t know that it concerns you, but I have nothing to conceal. I am going out to New Zealand in the _Pandora_, on the 24th.’ ‘The devil, you are!’ cried Godfrey. ‘Why, we shall be fellow-passengers.’ ‘How’s that? Do you sail in her too? Is the country getting too hot for you again?’ asked Farrell. ‘Not at all,’ replied Harland, with assumed dignity. ‘I have come into some money, and am travelling with friends for my own pleasure.’ ‘Indeed! Swells, I suppose. What class do you go?’ ‘First, of course.’ ‘Well, I go second, of course, as I pay for myself, so we shall not see much of each other, thank goodness! on the voyage.’ ‘That will not be _my_ fault,’ said Godfrey, blandly, still nervously bent on his efforts at conciliation. ‘But it will be mine if we _do_,’ returned Farrell, fiercely. ‘Look you here, Horace Cain, I can see through your soft words plain enough. You’re afraid of me, as you’ve got good cause to be, and it would have been all the better for you if you’d told the truth when you first met me, and not tried to sneak out of it by a lie.’