Well, that was better-much better. "We read a lot in my regiment," he remarked, and watched Cholmondeley -or Henderson-out of the corner of his eye.

Still that shocked, rather frigid silence. "Do you like readin'?" he asked, desperately, addressing the immense gold epergne standing just in front of him.

And then he caught sight of Henderson-or Cholmondeley-again. Cholmondeley - Henderson-appeared to be somewhat unnerved, to say the least of it. He absent-mindedly put a large piece of ice in the enormous soup tureen, instead of putting it where he ought to. . . . He looked tremendously uncomfortable.

"And serve him dam' well right, too," reflected Egbert, viciously.

Unfortunately, he happened to reflect that particular thing out loud, and Mrs. Manders-who sat on his left, and who was only just beginning to talk to him again-dried up instantly.

On his right there was a high, implacable shoulder and the voice of Mrs. Somebody-else talking very earnestly to some one she shouldn't. Still, how in the dickens was he going to get that twentyfive dollars out of soi-disant Mr. Cholmondeley or the address of Miss McQuaill?

Then a particularly hateful idea occurred to Egbert with horrid insistence. Perhaps she, too, was something else, something distressing.

But, of course, that was perfectly absurd!

Egbert was instantly rewarded by a radiant vision of that young lady, her delicate chin raised, her clear eyes shining like high, steadfastly inviolate stars, and a delicious understanding smile playing about her lips, rather proud.... Of course it was ridiculous, intolerable!

Then he was conscious of a vast silence. Some one was saying something and everybody else was listening. Somewhat slowly. Egbert listened too.

"You don't seem well, Henderson." It was Mr. Trail.

VOL. CXLIV.-No. 859.-10

Egbert recognized the supposititious Mr. Cholmondeley's altered tones. "I'm very sorry, sir, I'm sure-"

"I think you'd better go to bed. Let Walters carry on."

"Very good, sir. Thank you, sir.”

Well, that was all jolly fine, but how the devil was he going to find out those two things he wanted-and wanted tremendously—to know?

Still, one could hardly let on one knew one's host's butler-lent money to him! Egbert lapsed again into a profound and gloomy silence. What on earthWhat in the dickens could he do about that infernal business?

Nothing simply nothing!

There is, of course, more than one way to kill a cat. Another way—a particularly good way, too-occurred to Egbert as he strolled dejectedly homeward as soon as he could decently leave Mr. Robertson Traill's house after din

ner.

It had been an infernal ordeal-quite the worst he had ever had to endure. Everything had gone wrong.

He stopped and lit an agitated cigarette; then a splendid idea occurred to him, something like an undoubted stroke of inspiration.

Therefore, about three the following afternoon Egbert presented himself once more at the towering Gothic doorway of Mr. Traill's house and rang the bell. He was calling upon Mr. Traill in the devout hope that he would find that gentleman out, but his butler at home.

There was a delay of some seconds, and Egbert rang the bell again, rather more impatiently, even imperiously.

The door swung open slowly and the startled face of the erstwhile Mr. Cholmondeley appeared.

"Look here," demanded Egbert, nervously, and with some difficulty-with immense difficulty-"look here. Is Mr. Robertson Traill in?"

The ci-devant Mr. Reginald Cholmondeley swallowed several times in rapid succession. He, too, appeared

to find a certain hardship in the matter of speech.

"Mr. Traill is not at home, sir." "Splendid Hi! Don't shut the Don't shut the door!"

Egbert cleared his throat and began again, in a rather clear, penetrating voice.

"That's just what I hoped-I mean, that he wouldn't be home," he explained. "Now, look here. What I want to know is, didn't I-" he glanced uneasily about, and lowered his voice "didn't I lend you twenty-five dollars at the Mont-Parnasse the other night?" There was an astounded silence. "Me, sir?"

"Isn't your name Cholmondeley?" "No, sir."

Another and even more astounded silence.

And then the door swung quickly to. Egbert rang the bell again.

The door opened again. "Look here-"

"Mr. Traill," announced a choked voice from within, "is not at home.”

Immediately the immense door was banged to, with immense violence. Egbert stared at the heavily embossed bronze panels savagely; he wanted to hurt Mr. Cholmondeley more than ever.

.. But how on earth could he? And what in the devil could he do in the least useful, even if he did hurt that unadmirable individual? He supposed he wasn't making another-a more frightful-mistake; that would be too ghastly; and for a moment he considered the matter deeply. Then he rang the bell again. Hang it all! It couldn't possibly be a mistake! He waited.

The door opened stealthily, extraordinarily stealthily, and Egbert stared at it with a growing sense of some rather treacherous piece of strategy. In the narrow opening there was no sign of Mr. Cholmondeley. There was no sound of

any sort or description, except, of course, the roar of Fifth Avenue.

Then, suddenly, and amazingly swiftly and unexpectedly, a hand shot out and deposited a piece of stiff, white note paper hastily folded up in Egbert's hand. That stupefied young man had a glimpse of Mr. Cholmondeley's white, terrified face; then the great bronze door closed with shattering vehemence, as if shutting in some vast, Titanic career.

Egbert stood staring at the closed door for some several minutes before he was conscious that he in turn was being stared at by a rapidly increasing crowd of passers-by who had stopped to view that singular pantomime of his performance. He was conscious, too, for the first time really, that he clutched a piece of extremely stiff white note paper folded and re-folded in his hand. He glanced at it, slowly unfolded it, and five very soiled, crumpled five-dollar bills fluttered raffishly to the ground.

A policeman paused in the course of his official peregrinations and joined the increasing crowd. Rather viciously, Egbert kicked at the fallen money. He was scowling darkly and reprehensibly, and swearing-as if something very bitter tormented him.

"I don't care," he said. "I- Hang it all! I don't care a bit-if I never see her again."

Of course, it was perfectly obvious that he did care, immensely. But just at that moment he scowled again, turned on his heel with tremendous decision, ran down the steps, and disappeared round the corner in one of the side streets.

"There are plenty of other girls in the world besides Her," he kept saying to himself. "Plenty, and just as pretty!"

But, as a matter of fact, he failed ignominiously in convincing himselfeven by so drastic a method as innumerable reiterations of that very obvious heresy. Indeed, that was the worst of it. He did care-and care enormously.

Then he met Miss McQuaill.

It was not, in any way, a very suc

cessful meeting; in fact, it was rather disastrous than otherwise. It was sudden and quite unexpected, and very disconcerting. There were a great many people present, too, and in another room some one was playing the piano in immense agitation. A severely correct butler in a starched shirt and an extremely well-cut morning coat (who was superintending the activities of two very large footmen in livery) suggested certain images to Egbert's mind which were perturbing, to say the least of it.

Then there was the delight of seeing her! And the distress of seeing her!

Naturally, Egbert was somewhat speechless and pinkish and absurdly perplexed. Inwardly, he swore vindictively that he had allowed his uncle, who had remembered reluctantly his avuncular obligations that afternoon, to carry him off to a confounded musicale, or whatever they called it. Although he attempted an iciness of manner, he felt at a distinct and depressing disadvantage.

She appeared to be so slim and pleased and triumphant-exactly as if that infernal fellow had been what he pretended to be.

There was the most delicious smile in her eyes as she held out a deliciously slender white hand and said:

"Why, how do you do, Mr. Ainslie?" And then, "Have you seen Reggie Cholmondeley lately?"

Reggie!

"I think he's rather a dear," said Miss McQuaill, after a short pause.

Egbert was conscious of an accumulation of irritations-Pelion piled upon Ossa-so that everything else was shut out.

"Indeed," he said, coldly. He put down his teacup and mopped his brow again. "Indeed."

"So very distinguished, don't you think?"

Egbert wanted to shout that he thought nothing of the sort, but he managed just to bow, and Miss McQuaill went rather gayly on, looking more lovely and proud and entrancing every minute. Of course, the more beautiful she appeared to be, the more bewildered he became; he wished he'd never seen her again; and then he wished she would explain about that disgusting Henderson or Cholmondeley, or whatever his name really happened to be. But the difficulties of lucid explanation never seemed so immense as they did at that particular moment.

"You know, I think Englishmen would get on much, much better over here if they were more like Mr. Cholmondeley," Miss McQuaill was saying, briskly. "We see-er-too many who are not. You know the sort I mean," she added, candidly.

Egbert remarked, feelingly, "My God!"

Miss McQuaill regarded that un

baffled expression of astonishment upon her delicately chiseled face.

"I suppose," she said, and there was disapproval in her voice and her eyes— "I suppose you think America's simply a place to dump all your British undesirables."

Egbert protested that that was not in the least what he meant.

Well, then, what had he meant?

Egbert embarked upon the singularly difficult business of explaining precisely what he had meant, and a great deal of explanation it appeared to require, too. Miss McQuaill listened with rather dis

dainful incredulity, and looked much, much more beautiful than ever.

"Anyway," concluded Egbert, breathlessly, and somewhat hopelessly, "his name's not Cholmondoley at all. It's Henderson-at least I think it's Henderson. It may be anything."

"Of course, it might be," said Miss McQuaill, but in a tone of voice which implied a considerable doubt in the

matter.

"Of course," agreed Egbert.

"Still, you seem rather uncertain about it.'

"I'm not in the least uncertain," said Egbert, indignantly.

"Well, anyway," said Miss McQuaill, “what's in a name?" And then, extremely pointedly, she added, “Manners maketh the man."

Now what on earth could anyone say to that?

Egbert looked boiled to a turn. "I suppose you don't believe me," he said, and felt that he had only made his case more unconvincing than ever.

Or perhaps Miss McQuaill wasn't a dupe... perhaps. . . Innumerable possibilities occurred to Egbert with startling distinctness and rapidity. He mopped his forehead with greater energy than ever.

"Look here," he began, desperately. "I"

"I don't care to hear anything more,' said Miss McQuaill. "But-"

‘Anything—at all." This very firmly. And then, very proud and slim and self-possessed, she strolled across the room and disappeared. Egbert tried to think of her as an adventuress in order to harden his heart, but, as a matter of fact, he simply succeeded in hardening his imagination. Her slim, delightful loveliness was obvious through any disguise. He hurried after her frantically, with a tremendous number of things to say; they were not, as a matter of fact, the things he had originally intended saying; he could not recollect exactly what he had intended

Then he After all,

Egbert quickened his steps. came to a sudden full stop. what on earth was the use of trying to say anything more? Then he lost sight of Miss McQuaill altogether and immediately hurried in pursuit; a great many things to say occurred to him.

Even if she were an adventuress .

At Fifty-seventh Street a congestion of traffic held him up exasperatingly, and by the time he had resumed his progress down Fifth Avenue Miss McQuaill was almost lost, and it was only by extreme and reckless haste and the irony of fate that he overtook that rather leisurely young lady a few yards from the Gothic doorway of Mr. Robertson Traill's immense residence. He removed his hat.

"I say," began Egbert, breathlessly, "you must let me explain—”

"Explain?"

Miss McQuaill came to a vaguely astonished pause and tapped one immaculate toe with the tip of her parasol; she looked at Egbert rather as if she had never seen that extremely desperate young man before in her life.

Egbert put on his hat . . . "There's a great deal to be explained," he said, firmly, "and it's-er-now or never. Er-"

Egbert was instantly assailed by temptation. Should he give up the whole heartbreaking business then and there? Women were such confoundedly unreasonable things. Or should he try to see her the next day? No! Of course not...

"Look here," said Egbert, very hurriedly, and with immense determination. "You've simply got to listen to reason."

"About Mr. Cholmondeley?" interrupted Miss McQuaill, sweetly. It was a sweetness of manner that the thoroughly exasperated young man found very difficult to bear.

It occurred to Egbert that this was a business demanding a certain amount of patience. There would have to be selfcontrol, and politeness.

"I'm sorry," he said.

Sorry! Miss McQuaill regarded him with startled reproach.

"Sorry," repeated Egbert, but with tremendous firmness and without releasing his hold, "but you've simply got to see for yourself, and then.

By this time the postman was coming nearer in fact, he passed them and ran up the steps to Mr. Traill's door with a fat and important bundle of letters in one hand. He rang the bell with immense impatience.

"Butler!"

"Yes, and his name's not Cholmondeley. It's Henderson."

"Not Cholmondeley?"

"It's not Cholmondeley, and it never was Cholmondeley. He's a confounded impostor-the sort of Englishman," he added, vindictively, "it would be better if there were more of in America."

There was a slight but rather noticeable pause, and Miss McQuaill observed the stolidly hurried approach of a postman.

"I don't think I care to hear anything more," she said, finally; "it's-it's disgusting."

Egbert drew the long breath of one far gone in exasperation. What was the use of trying to explain? Of anything? And then a sudden gust of violence swept over him; he grasped Miss McQuaill's slim wrist and started to pull her toward the large and impressive doorway of Mr. Robertson Traill's. There was only one thing to do with women, and he'd jolly well do it. . .

"Look here; we'll ring Mr. Traill's bell and you can blooming well see for yourself," he announced.

glad, I suppose."

He stared at the postman's back in silence. Miss McQuaill glanced from him to the postman also. As a matter of fact, they saw the door swing open and the ci-devant Mr. Cholmondeley, in a black coat, striped trousers, and a starched shirt, receive the letters the postman handed to him with a certain austere air of distinction. Then he saw them.

That large and dignified door was shut with sudden and astonishing violence, to say the least of it. There was a palpitating silence.

"Well," remarked Egbert, bitterly, "there is a distinguished sort of AngloSaxon for you-what?"

Another pause.

"I say," said Egbert, presently, "just how on earth did you ever meet Mr. Reginald Cholmondeley?"

Explanations are difficult things at best. Miss McQuaill blushed.

"It is a pity, isn't it," demanded Egbert, "that more men like Mr. Cholmondeley don't come out here?"

Miss McQuaill regarded him brightly, tearful. "Please," she said. "Please!"

She was extraordinarily beautiful, and