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Merefleet leant forward. It was so little his custom to open conversation with a stranger that his manner was abrupt and somewhat forced on this unusual occasion.

“I believe I ought to know you,” he said. “But I can’t recall your name.”

The reply was delivered in a manner as curt as his own. “My name is Seton,” said the stranger. “As you have only met me once before, you probably won’t recall it now.”

Merefleet nodded comprehension. He loved the straight, quiet speech of Englishmen. There was no flurry or palaver about this specimen. He spoke as a man quite sure of himself and wholly independent of his fellow men.

“Ah, I remember you now,” Merefleet said. “You came as Ralph Warrender’s guest to a club dinner in New York. Am I right?”

“Perfectly,” said Seton. “You were the guest of the evening. You made a good speech, I remember. You were looking horribly ill. I suppose that is how I came to notice you particularly.”

“I was ill,” said Merefleet, “or I should have been out of New York before that dinner came off. I always detested the place. And Warrender would have done far better in my place.”

“I am not an admirer of Warrender,” said Seton bluntly.

Merefleet made no comment. He was never very free in the statement of his opinion.

“The railway accident in which his wife was killed took place immediately after that dinner, I believe?” he observed presently. “I remember hearing of it when I was recovering.”

“It was a shocking thing–that accident,” said Seton thoughtfully. “It’s odd that Americans always manage to do that sort of thing on such a gigantic scale.”

“They do everything on a gigantic scale,” said Merefleet. “What became of Warrender afterwards? It was an awful business for him.”

“I don’t know anything about him,” Seton answered, with a brevity that seemed to betray lack of interest. “He was no friend of mine, though I chanced to be his guest on that occasion. I was distantly connected with his wife, and I inherited some of her money at her death. She was a rich woman, as you probably know.”

“So I heard. But I have never found New York gossip particularly attractive.”

Seton leant his elbow on the window-sill and gazed meditatively into the night. “If it comes to that,” he said slowly, “no gossip is exactly edifying. And to be the victim of it is to be in the most undesirable position under the sun.”

It struck Merefleet that he uttered the words with some force, almost with the deliberate intention of conveying a warning; and, being the last man in the world to attempt to fathom the wholly irrelevant affairs of his neighbour, he dropped into silence and began to smoke.

Seton sat motionless for some time. The murmur of a conversation that was being sleepily sustained by two men in the room behind them created no disturbing influence. Presently Seton spoke casually, but with that in his tone which made Merefleet vaguely conscious of an element of suspicion.

“You didn’t expect to see me just now, did you?” he asked.

“No,” said Merefleet. “I should have taken the trouble to call your name to mind before I spoke if I had.”

Seton nodded. “I saw you at table d’hote” he remarked. “I was with my cousin at the other end of the room. You were gone when we got up.”

“Your cousin?” said Merefleet deliberately. “Is that the American lady who is staying here?”

“Yes. Miss Ward. She is from New York, too. You may have seen her there.”

“No,” said Merefleet. “I know very little of New York society, or any society for the matter of that.”

Seton turned and looked at him with a smile. “Odd,” he said. “For there can be scarcely a man, woman, or child, here or in America, who does not know you by name.”

“Not so bad as that, I hope,” said Merefleet. And Seton laughed.

“You have the reputation for shunning celebrity,” he remarked.