a gigantic figure, towered above him. "Who the devil are you?"
he was asking. "What do you mean by it?"

Dickson had no breath for words, and knew that if he tried to
speak he would be very sick. He could only stare up like a dog
at the angry eyes. Angry beyond question they were, but surely
not malevolent. Indeed, as they looked at the shameful figure on
the ground, amusement filled them. The face relaxed into a smile.

"Who on earth are you?" the voice repeated. And then into it
came recognition. "I've seen you before. I believe you're the
little man I saw last week at the Black Bull. Be so good as to
explain why you want to murder me."

Explanation was beyond Dickson, but his conviction was being
woefully shaken. Saskia had said her enemy was a beautiful as
a devil--he remembered the phrase, for he had thought it ridiculous.
This man was magnificent, but there was nothing devilish in his
lean grave face.

"What's your name?" the voice was asking.

"Tell me yours first," Dickson essayed to stutter between spasms of nausea.

"My name is Alexander Nicholson," was the answer.

"Then you're no' the man." It was a cry of wrath and despair.

"You're a very desperate little chap. For whom had I the honour
to be mistaken?"