"Your profession is, I take it," observed Verrill, "that of a physician." "You may say so," replied the other, "and you may also say an efficient one. But I am always the last to be summoned. I am a last resource; my remedy is a heroic one. But it prevails—inevitably. No pain, my dear Verrill, so sharp that I cannot allay, no anguish so great that I cannot soothe." "Then perhaps you may prescribe for me," said Verrill. "Of late I have been perturbed. I have lived under a certain strain, certain contingencies threaten, which, no doubt unreasonably, I have come to dread. I am shaken, nervous, fearful. My own doctor has been unable to help me. Perhaps you—" The stranger had already opened the bottle of wine which stood by his plate, and filled the silver cup. He handed it to Verrill. "Drink," he said. Verrill hesitated: "But this wine," he protested: "This cup—pardon me, it was reserved—" "Drink," repeated the stranger. "Trust me." He took Verrill’s glass in which he had drunk the toasts and which yet contained a little wine. He pressed the silver cup into Verrill’s hands. "Drink," he urged for the third time. Verrill took the cup, and the stranger raised his glass. "To our better acquaintance," he said. But Verrill, at length at the end of all conjecture, cried out, the cup still in his hand: "Your toast is most appropriate, sir. A better acquaintance with you, I assure you, would be most pleasing to me. But I must ask your pardon for my stupidity. Where have we met before? Who are you, and what is your name?" The stranger did not immediately reply, but fixed his grave grey eyes upon Verrill’s. For a moment he held his gaze in his own. Then as the seconds slipped by, the first indefinite sense of suspicion flashed across Verrill’s mind, flashed and faded, returned once more, faded again, and left him wondering. Then as the stranger said: "Do you remember,—it was long ago. Do you remember the sight of naked spars rocking against a grey torn sky, a ship wrenching and creaking, wrestling with the wind, a world of pale green surges, the gale singing through the cordage, and then as the sea swept the decks—ah, you do remember." For Verrill had started suddenly, and with the movement, full recognition, complete, unequivocal, gleamed suddenly in his eyes. There was a long silence while he returned the gaze of the other, now no longer a stranger. At length Verrill spoke, drawing a long breath. "Ah ... it is you ... at last." "Well!" Verrill smiled: "It _is_ well, I had imagined it would be so different,—when you did come. But as it is—," he extended his hand, "I am very glad to meet you." "Did I not tell you," said the other, "that of all the world, I am the most cruelly misunderstood?" "But you confessed to the masquerade." "Oh, blind, blind, not to see behind the foolish masque. Come, we have not yet drunk." He placed the cup in Verrill’s hands, and once again raised the glass.