“That depends upon the drawer.” “I don’t care who the drawer is. I won’t pay it. I don’t care even if it’s Smithers & Co. I’ll settle all when I’m ready. I’m not going to be bullied any longer. I’ve borne enough. You needn’t look so very grand,” he continued, pettishly; “I see through you, and you can’t keep up this sort of thing much longer.” “You appear to hint that you know who I am?” “Something of that sort,” said Potts, rudely; “and let me tell you I don’t care who you are.” “That depends,” rejoined the other, calmly, “very much upon circumstances.” “So you see,” continued Potts, “you won’t get any thing out of me--not this time,” he added. “My draft,” said the stranger, “is different from those which were presented at the bank counter.” He spoke in a tone of deep solemnity, with a tone which seemed like the tread of some inevitable Fate advancing upon its victim. Potts felt an indefinable fear stealing over him in spite of himself. He said not a word. “My draft,” continued the stranger, in a tone which was still more aggressive in its dominant and self-assertive power--“my draft was drawn twenty years ago.” Potts looked wonderingly and half fearfully at him. “My draft,” said the other, “was drawn by Colonel Lionel Despard.” A chill went to the heart of Potts. With a violent effort he shook off his fear. “Pooh!” said he, “you’re at that old story, are you? That nonsense won’t do here.” “It was dated at sea,” continued the stranger, in tones which still deepened in awful emphasis--“at sea, when the writer was all alone.” “It’s a lie!” cried Potts, while his face grew white. “At sea,” continued the other, ringing the changes on this one word, “at sea--on board that ship to which you had brought him--the _Vishnu_!” Potts was like a man fascinated by some horrid spectacle. He looked fixedly at his interlocutor. His jaw fell. “There he died,” said the stranger. “Who caused his death? Will you answer?” With a tremendous effort Potts again recovered command of himself. “You--you’ve been reading up old papers,” replied he, in a stammering voice. “You’ve got a lot of stuff in your head which you think will frighten me. You’ve come to the wrong shop.” But in spite of these words the pale face and nervous manner of Potts showed how deep was his agitation. “I myself was on board the _Vishnu_,” said the other. “You!” “Yes, I.” “You! Then you must have been precious small. The _Vishnu_ went down twenty years ago.” “I was on board of the _Vishnu_, and I saw Colonel Despard.” The memory of some awful scene seemed to inspire the tones of the speaker--they thrilled through the coarse, brutal nature of the listener. “I saw Colonel Despard,” continued the stranger. “You lie!” cried Potts, roused by terror and horror to a fierce pitch of excitement. “I saw Colonel Despard,” repeated the stranger, for the third time, “on board the _Vishnu_ in the Indian Sea. I learned from him his story--” He paused.