o go half-dressed to the
toilet-room as most men do, and stepped out of his berth fully
appareled--in a natty business sack-suit of Scots-gray, a high
turn-down collar, fine enamel shoes and a rather noticeable tie.
Florian Amidon had always worn a decent buttoned-up frock and a
polka-dot cravat of modest blue, which his haberdasher kept in stock
especially for him. He felt as if, in getting lost, he had got into
the clothes of some other man--and that other one of much less quiet
and old-fashioned tastes in dress. It made him feel as if it were he
who had made the run to Canada with the bank's funds--furtive,
disguised, slinking.

He looked in the pockets of the coat like an amateur pickpocket, and
found some letters. He gazed at them askance, turning them over and
over, wondering if he ought to peep at their contents. Then he put
them back, and went into the smoking-room, where, finding himself
alone, he turned up his vest as if it had been worn by somebody else
whom he was afraid of disturbing, and looked at the initials on the
shirt-front. They were not "F. A.," as they ought to have been, but
"E. B."! He wondered which of the bags were his. Pressing the button,
he summoned the porter.

"George," said he, "bring my luggage in here."

And then he wondered at his addressing the porter in that drummer-like
way--he was already acting up to the smart suit--or down; he was in
doubt as to which it was.

The bags, when produced, showed those metal slides, sometimes seen,
concealing the owner's name. Sweat stood on Florian's brow as he
slipped the plate back and found the name of Eugene Brassfield,
Bellevale, Pennsylvania! A card-case, his pocketbook, all his linen
and his hat--all articles of expensive and gentlemanly quality, but
strange to him--disclosed the same name or initials, none of them his
own. In the valise he found some business letterheads, finely
engraved, of the Brassfield Oil Company, and Eugene Brassfield's name
was there set forth as president and general manager.

"Great heaven!" exclaimed Florian, "am I insane? Am I a robber and a
murderer? During this time which has dropped out of my life, have I
destroyed and despoiled this gentleman, and--and run off in his
clothes? I must denounce myself!"

The porter came, and, by way of denouncing himself, Mr. Amidon clapped
his waistcoat shut and buttoned it, snapped the catches of the bags,
and pretended to busy himself with the letters in h