"Fair fight, Wilfred!" John replied. "You may call it fair, if you like, but I don't. What chance had I when you pointed to your bank-book and said, 'If I die I can settle all that on her'? I could promise nothing. I hadn't a cent in the world beyond my weekly pay. Thirty shillings. And how pleased you were with yourself when you came to see me that last evening in Bristol. Do you remember what you said? 'It's the fortune of war, my boy. You'll soon get over it. Work.' As if I didn't work! But I took your advice, though I hated you for it; and I left Bristol. After what had happened I loathed the place. An uncle of mine offered me a clerkship in his office in Holborn, and I stuck so hard to my job that I eventually became a partner." "Then you're a rich man, John?" "Comfortable, but not rich, Wilfred." "And you've forgiven me? Got over that little love affair, eh? Well, well. Matrimony is not all bliss, John. At least that was my experience. Poor Jenny! But of course I have not told you. I'm much to be pitied, John." "She's dead!" "She is," Wilfred said, filling his mug with ale and raising it to his lips, "and I'm a lonely widower. But how did you know?" "You wouldn't believe me if I told you," John replied. "I get my information through channels that are barred to men like you." "Witchcraft, I suppose," Wilfred said, with a sneer. "But why this mystery? Someone in Bristol city wrote to you." "No, they didn't," John answered. "I know no one in Bristol city now. Your first suggestion was nearer the truth. Your wife, Wilfred, often comes to see me. I know all about the way in which you treated her." "The way in which I treated her!" Wilfred cried, starting upright in his chair, his face flushing angrily. "God's truth, man, what do you mean by such a statement?" "I mean exactly what I say," John answered. "For the first two years you treated her tolerably well. Then someone else caught your fancy. Jenny was neglected, despised, and on one occasion actually beaten." "It's a lie!" Wilfred gasped, springing to his feet, as if to leave the table. "No, it's not," John retorted, "and you know it. Come, sit down, man, and go on drinking. Love never was in your line, drink is. Besides, as you say, she's dead, and what's the use of quarrelling over a corpse, even though she were beautiful as--as----" He didn't finish his sentence, but leaning forward thrust Wilfred back into his chair. For some seconds the two men sat and looked at one another--Wilfred sullen, frightened, and resentful; John imperturbable save for the perpetual restless movement of his eyes, and an occasional peculiar twitching of his upper lip and hands. "A rum," John said at length, "or a gin? Or both?" "Rum." "Very good, let it be rum." He called the waiter, and a rum was served. "You're not drinking to-day, John," Wilfred remarked, taking a long pull at the rum and looking more amiable. "No, I'm quite off spirits," John replied--"at least, spirits of that kind."