"Bethune?—not that I am aware of," was the answer. "He is a friend of Mr. Anstruther’s," Vincent went on, led by a vague hope, "an old gentleman with white hair and beard—a handsome old man. There would be a young lady with him most probably." "No, sir; I have not seen any one of that description," said the clerk. "But he might have called on Mr. Anstruther at his home." "Oh, yes, certainly—very likely," said Vincent. "Thank you. I will come along to-morrow morning, and hope to find Mr. Anstruther quite well again." So he left and went out into the gathering dusk of the afternoon; and as he had nothing to do now, he walked all the way back to his hotel, looking at the various changes that had taken place since last he had been in the busy city. And then, when he reached the sumptuous and heavily-decorated apartment that served him at once as sitting-room and bed-room, he set to work to put his things in order, for they had been rather hurriedly jammed into his portmanteau on board ship. He was thus engaged when there came a knock at the door. "Entrez!" he called out, inadvertently (with some dim feeling that he was in a foreign town.) The stranger needed no second invitation. He presented himself. He was a small man, with a sallow and bloodless face, a black beard closely trimmed, a moustache allowed to grow its natural length, and dark, opaque, impassive eyes. He was rather showily dressed, and wore a pince-nez. For a second he paused at the door to take out his card-case; then, without uttering a word, he stepped forward and placed his card on the table. Vincent was rather surprised at this form of introduction; but of course he took up the card. He read thereon. ’_Mr. Joseph de Lara._’ "Oh, really," said he (but what passed through his mind was—’Is that confounded woman going to persecute me on shore as well as at sea?’). "How do you do? Very glad to make your acquaintance." "Oh, indeed, are you?" the other said, with a peculiar accent, the like of which Vincent had never heard before. "Perhaps not, when you know why I am here. Ah, do not pretend!—do not pretend!" Vincent stared at him, as if this were some escaped lunatic with whom he had to deal. "Sir, I am here to call you to account," said the little foreigner, in his thick voice. "It has been the scandal of the whole ship—the talk of all the voyage over—and it is an insult to me—to me—that my wife should be spoken of. Yes, you must make compensation—I demand compensation—and how? By the only way that is known to an Englishman. An Englishman feels only in his pocket; if he does wrong, he must pay; I demand from you a sum that I expend in charity——" Vincent who saw what all this meant in a moment, burst out laughing—a little scornfully. "You’ve come to the wrong shop, my good friend!" said he.