I tried him once more. "I don't remember seeing you here before last week?" He shot me a quick look, and said, "I haven't been in London." "Travelling, perhaps?" I hazarded negligently. He gave a harsh shout of laughter, succeeded by the same abrupt silence. Would all our conversation, I wondered, be conducted on this spasmodic system? He certainly didn't second my efforts at small-talk. Was what he had to say too vital, too oppressive? "I say," I resumed, leaning forward, "have I seen you anywhere else? I think your face is familiar...." It was a lie; I knew perfectly well that I had never seen him anywhere; his was not an appearance to be lightly forgotten. "And yet," I added, as he stared at me without speaking, "I am sure I should remember; one would remember this contrast"--and I touched first my face and then my hair. "It has only been like that for a fortnight." He brought out the words, scowling and lowering at me, and then the fierce look died away, to be replaced by a look of apology and pain; a cowed look, like that of a dog who has been ill-treated. "That is what made you notice me," he exclaimed; "it brands me, doesn't it? Yes. A freak. One might as well be piebald." He spoke with extraordinary vehemence, and, taking a handful of his hair, he tugged at it in a rage of despair; then sinking his face between his hands, he sat shaking his head mournfully from side to side. "Listen," I said, "have you any friends?" He raised his head. "I had a few stray acquaintances. Nothing would tempt me to go near them now." "Anyone to talk to?" "Not a soul. I haven't spoken to a soul since--since I came back." "Fire ahead, then," I said, "talk to me. You don't know my name, I don't know yours. You're quite safe. Say whatever you like. Go on. I'm waiting."