"He seemed to recognize you, Mr. Ainley. I saw that much in his eyes."
"Then probably he is the man whom I used to know, but I did not expect to meet him up here."
"No?" She waited as if for further information which was not immediately forthcoming, then she continued: "There are many men up here whom one does not expect to meet, men who belong 'to the legion of the lost ones, the cohort of the damned,' who have buried their old selves for ever. I wonder if that man is one of them?"
Gerald Ainley's face had regained its natural colour. Again he laughed as he replied: "If he is the man I knew he is certainly of the lost legion, for he has been in prison."
"In prison?" echoed the woman quickly. "He does not look like a gaol-bird. What was the crime?"
"Forgery! The judge was merciful and gave him three years' penal servitude."
"What is his name?"
"Stane—Hubert Stane!" replied the man shortly. As he spoke he glanced back over his shoulder towards the man whom they were discussing, then hastily averted his eyes.
The man from the river had turned round and was looking at him with concentrated gaze. His face was working as if he had lost control of his facial muscles, and his hands were tightly clenched. It was clear that the meeting with Ainley had been something of a shock to him, and from his attitude it appeared that he resented the other man's aloofness.
"The hound!" he whispered to himself, "the contemptible hound!"