“Then I'll arrange it with the others at once,” she said. This was a bucket of ice-water on me. I had not the first idea to what I had committed myself. “No, don't,” I said. “Wait till we have time to discuss it again.” “Oh, we can decide on the time whenever you like. Will some night week after next suit you?” I had to throw myself on the mercy of the enemy. “I'm afraid I'm getting rather absent-minded,” I said humbly. “I was looking at Miss Knapp and lost the thread of the discourse for a minute.” “That's what I was talking about,” she said sharply,--“about taking her and the rest of us through Chinatown.” “Yes, yes. I remember,” I said unblushingly. “If I can get away from business, I'm at your service at any time.” Then Mrs. Bowser wandered on with the arrangements she would find necessary to make, and I heard one of the low voices behind me: “Now this is a profound secret, you know. I wouldn't have them know for the world that any one suspects. I just heard it this week, myself.” “Oh, I wouldn't dare breathe it to a soul,” said the other. “But I'm sure I shan't sleep a wink tonight.” And they moved away. I interrupted Mrs. Bowser to explain that I must speak to Mrs. Knapp, and made my escape as some one stopped to pass a word with her. “Oh, must you go, Henry?” said Mrs. Knapp. “Well, you must come again soon. We miss you when you stay away. Don't let Mr. Knapp keep you too closely.” I professed myself happy to come whenever I could find the time, and looked about for Luella. She was nowhere to be seen. I left the room a little disappointed, but with a swelling of pride that I had passed the dreaded ordeal and had been accepted as Henry Wilton in the house in which I had most feared to meet disaster. My opinion of my own cleverness had risen, in the language of the market, “above par.” As I passed down the hall, a tall willowy figure stepped from the shadow of the stair. My heart gave a bound of delight. It was Luella Knapp. I should have the pleasure of a leave-taking in private. “Oh, Miss Knapp!” I said. “I had despaired of having the chance to bid you good night.” And I held out my hand. She ignored the hand. I could see from her heaving bosom and shortened breath that she was laboring under great agitation. Yet her face gave no evidence of the effort that it cost her to control herself. “I was waiting for you,” she said in a low voice. I started to express my gratification when she interrupted me. “Who are you?” broke from her lips almost fiercely. I was completely taken aback, and stared at her in amazement with no word at command. “You are not Henry Wilton,” she said rapidly. “You have come here with his name and his clothes, and made up to look like him, and you try to use his voice and take his place. Who are you?” There was a depth of scorn and anger and apprehension in that low voice of hers that struck me dumb.