an of perhaps twenty-seven or eight, sensitive, not at all the face of
a criminal escaping from justice, in spite of that hunted look which
had been so vividly present to me during the past week. An artist, I
thought; perhaps a writer; a romantic face; not blatantly romantic;
no, but after you had delved into the eyes and traced the quiver of the
mouth you discovered the certain signs of the romantic idealist.

"I saw you here last week," he muttered suddenly.

The little restaurant was by now almost empty; many of the lights had
been turned down, and at most of the tables the chairs had been tipped
forward. Being privileged as an old and regular customer, I beckoned to
the proprietor, and in a whisper begged that I might not be disturbed,
as I had to hold a business conversation of some importance with my
companion. At the same time I poured out for the stranger a glass of
wine from my own bottle, remarking that the wine here was better
than their coffee. This seemed to unloose his tongue a little, for he
exclaimed that coffee was very bad for the nerves, especially strong,
black coffee, as he drank it; and after this short outburst relapsed
again into silence, taking refuge in the paper.

I tried him once more.

"I don't remember seeing you here before last week?"

He shot me a quick look, and said, "I haven't been in London."

"Travelling, perhaps?" I hazarded negligently.

He gave a harsh shout of laughter, succeeded by the same abrupt silence.
Would all our conversation, I wondered, be conducted on this spasmodic
system? He certainly didn't second my efforts at small-talk. Was what he
had to say too vital, too oppressive?

"I say," I resumed, leaning forward, "have I seen you anywhere else?
I think your face is familiar...." It was a lie; I knew perfectly well
that I had never seen him anywhere; his was not an appearance to be
lightly forgotten.

"And yet," I added, as he stared at me without speaking, "I am sure I
should remember; one would remember this contrast"--and I touched first
my face and then my hair.

"It has only been like that for a fortnight."

He brought out the words, scowling and lowering at me, and then the
fierce look died away, to be replaced by a look of apology and pain; a
cowed look, like that of a dog who has been ill-treated. "That is what
made you notice me," he exclaimed; "it brands me, doesn't it? Yes.
A freak. One might as well be piebald." He spoke with extraordinary
vehem