"
Mr. Wilfer grunted.
"Come, let me think," Vermont continued, "were you ever at Canterbury?"
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.
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