There was standing on the kerb beneath the street lamp a man apparently engaged in lighting a cigar. When the girl turned, the light of the lamp fell full upon her face. The man stared at her, forgetting his cigar-light, which fell burning from his hand into the gutter. When the door shut upon her, he stared at George, who, for his part, his mistress having vanished, stared at the door. All this staring occupied a period of at least half a minute. Then George turned and walked away: the man struck another light, lit his cigar, and strode away too, but in the same direction. Presently he caught up George and laid a hand upon his shoulder. 'Here, you sir,' he said gruffly; 'I want a word with you before we go any further.' George turned upon him savagely. Nobody likes a heavy hand laid upon the shoulder. In the old days it generally meant a writ and Whitecross Street and other unpleasant things. 'Who the devil are you?' he asked. 'That is the question I was going----' He stopped and laughed.--'No--I see now. I don't want to ask it. You are George Austin, are you not?' 'That is my name. But who are you--and what do you want with me?' The man was a stranger to him. He was dressed in a velvet coat and a white waistcoat: he wore a soft felt hat; and with the velvet jacket, the felt hat, and a full beard, he looked like an artist of some kind. At the end of June it is still light at half-past nine. George saw that the man was a gentleman: his features, strongly marked and clear cut, reminded him of something--but vaguely; they gave him the common feeling of having been seen or known at some remote period. The man looked about thirty, the time when the physical man is at his best: he was of good height, well set up, and robust. Something, no doubt, in the art world: or something that desired to appear as if belonging to the art world. Because, you see, the artists themselves are not so picturesque as those who would be artists if they could. The unsuccessful artist, certainly, is sometimes a most picturesque creature. So is the model. The rags and duds and threadbarity too often enter largely into the picturesque. So with the ploughboy's dinner under the hedge, or the cotter's Saturday night. And the village beershop may make a very fine picture; but the artist himself does not partake in those simple joys. 'Well, sir, who are you?' George repeated as the other man made no reply. 'Do you not remember me? I am waiting to give you a chance.' 'No--certainly not.' 'Consider. That house into which you have just taken my--a young lady--does it not connect itself with me?' 'No. Why should it?' 'Then I suppose that I am completely forgotten.' 'It is very strange. I seem to recall your voice.' 'I will tell you who I am by another question. George Austin, what in thunder are you doing with my sister?' 'Your sister?' George jumped up and stared. 'Your sister? Are you--are you Athelstan come home again? Really and truly--Athelstan?'