"I shall kill your housekeeper. She must
have black-leaded that knocker. Morning. How are you. Pretty well
ready?"

"Ready?" said Stratton hurriedly. "No, not yet. I'm sure I--"

"Why, hullo, old chap; what's the matter?"

"Matter? Nothing, nothing."

"Well, you look precious seedy. White about the gills. Why, hang it,
Malcolm, don't take it like that. Fancy you being nervous. What about?
Packed up, I see."

"Yes--yes."

"Wish it was my turn," continued the newcomer. "Might as well have been
two couples: Mr and Mrs Malcolm Stratton; Mr and Mrs Percy Guest.
Why, I say, old chap, you are ill."

"No, no," cried Stratton hurriedly; and a sudden thought struck him.

Catching up the telegram from the table, he handed it to his friend.

"Hullo! Nothing serious? Poof! What a molehill mountain. You
shouldn't let a thing like this agitate your noble nerves. Bless the
dear little woman. I'll run on to Common Garden, Central Avenue, as we
say in some suckles, bully the beggar for not sending it, start him, and
be back for you in a jiffy."

"No, no," cried Stratton excitedly, "don't trust them. Get the bouquet,
and take it yourself. Don't come back. I'll meet you at the church."

"All right, old chap. Your slave obeys. Only, I say, I would have a
duet--S. and B.--before I started. Screw up, and don't come with a face
like that."

The speaker went to the door, opened it, and looking round laughingly:
"Precious dull; I'll tell 'em to turn on the sun," he said, and hurried
out.

As the outer door closed Stratton darted to the inner and shut it,
while, as he turned, his unwelcome visitor stepped out of the bath
room--evidently formerly a passage leading into the next chamber--and
returned to his chair, "Best man--bouquets--carriages waiting--church--
wedding breakfast," he said laughingly. "By Jove! I could drink a
tumbler of champagne."

By this time Stratton had grown firmer, and, pointing to the door, he
cried:

"Look here, sir; I'll have no more of this. You are an impostor. I
don't know where you obtained your information, but if you have come to
levy blackmail on the strength of such a mad tale, you have failed; so
go."

"To my wife?"

"To the police-station if you dare to threaten me. Look here: James
Barron, otherwise James Dale, died two years ago."

"Then he has come to life again, that's all," said the man coolly.
"Now, look here, you; I've not come to quarrel. I call on