hoarse--it's a natural consequence."

The other smiled. "Ah, discontent!" he said. "The modern
canker. But we must both be getting under way. Good-night!
Shall we shake hands--to prove that we are genuinely
material?"

Chilcote had been standing unusually still, following the
stranger's words--caught by his self-reliance and impressed by
his personality. Now, as he ceased to speak, he moved quickly
forward, impelled by a nervous curiosity.

"Why should we just hail each other and pass--like the
proverbial ships?" he said, impulsively. "If Nature was
careless enough to let the reproduction meet the original, she
must abide the consequences."

The other laughed, but his laugh was short. "Oh, I don't
know. Our roads lie differently. You would get nothing out
of me, and I--" He stopped and again laughed shortly. "No,"
he said; "I'd be content to pass, if I were you. The
unsuccessful man is seldom a profitable study. Shall we
say good-night?"

He took Chilcote's hand for an instant; then, crossing the
footpath, he passed into the road-way towards the Strand.

It was done in a moment; but with his going a sense of loss
fell upon Chilcote. He stood for a space, newly conscious of
unfamiliar faces and unfamiliar voices in the stream of