"Well, it's all over now," I said, choking a little. "And your name didn't get into the papers. It is rather transatlantic when you come to think of it."

"Over!" Wilton grunted savagely. "It's only just begun. That trouble with the guard was just common, ordinary assault - merely a little criminal business. The flagging of the train is civil, infernally civil, - and means something quite different. They're after me for that now."

"Who?"

"The Great Buchonian. There was a man in court watching the case on behalf of the Company. I gave him my name in a quiet corner before I bought my hat, and - come to dinner now; I'll show you the results afterwards." The telling of his wrongs had worked Wilton Sargent into a very fine temper, and I do not think that my conversation soothed him. In the course of the dinner, prompted by a devil of pure mischief, I dwelt with loving insistence on certain smells and sounds of New York which go straight to the heart of the native in foreign parts; and Wilton began to ask many questions about his associates aforetime - men of the New York Yacht Club, Storm King, or the Restigouche, owners of rivers, ranches, and shipping in their playtime, lords of railways, kerosene, wheat, and cattle in their offices. When the green mint came, I gave him a peculiarly oily and atrocious cigar, of the brand they sell in the tessellated, electric-lighted, with expensive-pictures-of-the-nude adorned bar of the Pandemonium, and Wilton chewed the end for several minutes ere he lit it. The butler left us alone, and the chimney of the oak-panelled diningroom began to smoke.