Nevill paused, latch-key in hand; a cautious impulse checked the admission of his identity. The individual who had accosted him, seen by the glow of a distant street-lamp, was thickset and rakish-looking, with a heavy mustache. He repeated his question uneasily.
"If I've made a mistake—" he went on.
"No, you are not mistaken," said Nevill. "But how did you learn my name, and what do you want with me?"
On a natural impulse, fancying he recognized a racing tipster who had been of service to him in the past, he reached for his pocket; the jingling of coin was heard.
"Stow that—I'm not a beggar!" the man said, sharply.
"I beg your pardon! I thought I recalled—"
"We never met before, Mr. Nevill."
"Then it's a queer time of night for a stranger to hunt me up. If you have business with me, come in the morning; or, better still, write to me."
"I've got to talk to you to-night, sir, and I ain't to be put off. For two blessed hours I've been hanging around this house, watching an' waiting—"
"A sad waste of time! You are an impudent fellow, whoever you are. I refuse to have anything to do with you."