The footsteps came nearer, and shortly afterwards a man paused in the centre of the road as he saw the still figure leaning indolently against the fence. A fair-haired ruddy-faced man, of medium height, arrayed in a walking suit, with a knapsack on his shoulder, and a heavy stick in his hand. "Hullo!" he cried, tapping his stick on the ground, "how far is it to the village?" Basil Beaumont started slightly when he heard the voice, then an evil smile crossed his face as he turned lazily round to answer the question. "About one mile, Nestley," he replied distinctly. As he spoke the pedestrian gave a cry, and with a muttered oath sprang forward to where the other stood. "Beaumont!" he whispered, recoiling at the sight of that mocking, Mephistophelean countenance smiling at his emotion. "At your service," said Beaumont, carelessly putting his hands in his pockets. "And what are you doing in this part of the country, Doctor Duncan Nestley?" Nestley did not answer, but stared fixedly at the artist as if he were turned into stone, but the other met his gaze steadily and seemed rather amused at the scrutiny. "You take a long time to recognise an old friend," he observed at length, blowing a thin wreath of smoke. "Friend," echoed Nestley, with a deep sigh, recovering himself. "Yes, you were my friend, Basil Beaumont." "Why 'were'?" asked the artist coolly. "Because it was you who so nearly ruined my life," replied Nestley in a deep voice. Beaumont smiled in a saturnine manner. "I," he said in a gibing tone. "My good fellow you do me too much honour. I would never dare to ruin so celebrated an individual as Duncan Nestley, F.R.C.S., and deuce knows what other letters of the alphabet." The pedestrian turned on him fiercely, and, stepping forward, confronted him with clenched fists. The artist never blenched, but eyed his angry antagonist steadily. So Nestley, with all the wrath dying out of his face, fell back into his former position with a dreary laugh. "You have the one virtue of a scoundrel, I see," he said bitterly. "Courage." "Man of one virtue and ten thousand crimes," quoted Beaumont, easily. "Faith, it's something to have even one virtue in this degenerate age. Where are you going?" he added, as Nestley turned away. "Going?" echoed the doctor, fiercely. "Anywhere, so long as it is away from you." Beaumont raised his eyebrows in affected surprise, then, shrugging his shoulders, took out his watch. "It is now between five and six o'clock," he said, putting it back again, "and it will be dark by the time we reach Garsworth, which is the nearest village. I am staying there, but if you choose to go back again in order to avoid the moral leper, I daresay you'll reach Shunton by twelve o'clock." "I'm not going with you," reiterated Nestley, resolutely, as the artist stepped into the road. "'Nobody axed you, sir,' she said," retorted Beaumont, with a sneer, sauntering on. "Good-bye; a pleasant journey."