is was Miss Smith's narrative.

Now out of this curious jumble of true and false, two points remain
clear:

My brother _had_ known a Chomley in India, and had succeeded him as
Brigade Major at Meean Meer. This Chomley _was_ a brother of Sir
Frederic Chomley, the well-known diplomatist, but his name was Walter,
not Henry Arthur. Yet Sir Frederic _had_ a brother named Henry Arthur,
and the impersonating Anstruther had borrowed the wrong brother's name
when trying to pose as the friend of Colonel Charles Bates. To make
confusion worse confounded, _Walter Chomley_ was alive, as well as
_Henry Arthur_, at the time of Miss Mabel Smith's experiences, for I
have seen his death within the last eight months!

The second point is that, personally, my brother and I had reason to be
grateful to the deceiving Anstruther. He was certainly the means of
introducing a pleasant acquaintance to my brother and to me.

Miss Mabel Smith's experience at Grindelwald reminds me of one of my own
in the same place during the following year.

I had gone there with a cousin, who was eager for skating and
tobogganing, in January 1902, on my way to Rome. After a pleasant week
at a charmingly quiet and comfortable hotel--the _Alpenruehe_ I think was
the name--my cousin wished, for purposes of policy, to change over to a
more famous, but noisy and overcrowded one.

So on the evening of 3rd February we found ourselves in this immense
caravanserai, having exchanged our large, comfortable, steam-heated
rooms for small, oblong apartments, each provided with three doors as
well as the window, and a wood fire to be fed from small "five-franc
baskets," and always going out at that!

There was deep snow on the ground and a heavy fog of snow falling when
we made our change, so that one was not in the most brilliant spirits;
and being suddenly thrust into the midst of a big, heterogeneous company
of strangers is never exhilarating.

Our bedrooms, though small and not specially comfortable, were perfectly
commonplace, the very last _milieu_ with which one would have associated
any interesting experience. The window of my room faced the door into
the passage, my bed lay between the two; right and left of it were two
other doors, each communicating with other occupied rooms.

Therefore I thought little the first night of noises and moving of
furniture, taking for granted that these must be occurring either right
or left of me, and that the clearness of the