Mr. Wilfer started violently.
"Ah! I am on the right track. Yes, I remember now; it was a little inn in the summer time, a beautiful moonlight night."
"Wasn't me," snarled Wilfer, though his face was pale.
"I thought you were there," said his tormentor as cheerfully and triumphantly as if the other had admitted it. "You're not a good liar," he continued. "If a man can't do that sort of thing well, he'd better stick to the truth. At a little inn in Canterbury. Yes, I remember it all now. I'm glad my memory does not play me tricks." His grasp tightened on Wilfer's sleeve. "I don't like tricks," he purred. "How strange that we should meet again. I think at that time you were an artist; yes, that is what you called yourself, and there was a pretty little girl with you, and you called her your wife. Oh, yes, my friend, you were good at 'calling' things."
"Look here," growled Wilfer, getting his word in at last. "You just stow it, I don't know you----"
"No, I know you don't," said his companion imperturbably, "But you will; oh, yes, you will! Let us go back to Canterbury, where you manufactured such beautiful pictures."
Wilfer moved uneasily.
"Beautiful pictures," continued the mocking voice, "all by Rubens and Raphael and Titian. I shouldn't be surprised if that was one of yours I saw at the Countess of Merivale's to-day, the 'Portrait of a gentleman,' sold for £300. There was a warranty with it, signed, sealed and delivered by a Mr. Johann Wilfer."
"I didn't, it wasn't," the man stuttered, his face almost green in hue, his voice trembling with anger and fear.
Mr. Vermont smiled. He had his man safe and sound.