Mr. Brown, when he again found himself in the clerk’s office, requested that his card might be taken up to Mr. Jones. Mr. Jones had sent down his own card, which was handed to Mr. Brown: “Mr. Barnaby Jones.” “And how was it all, sir?” asked the clerk, in a whisper--a whisper which had at the same time something of authoritative demand and something also of submissive respect. The clerk, of course, was anxious to know the mystery. It is hardly too much to say that every one in that vast hotel was by this time anxious to have the mystery unravelled. But Mr. Brown would tell nothing to any one. “It is merely a matter to be explained between me and Mr. Jones,” he said. The card was taken up-stairs, and after a while he was ushered into Mr. Jones’s room. It was, of course, that very 353 with which the reader is already acquainted. There was a fire burning, and the remains of Mr. Jones’s breakfast were on the table. He was sitting in his dressing-gown and slippers, with his shirt open in the front, and a silk handkerchief very loosely covering his throat. Mr. Brown, as he entered the room, of course looked with considerable anxiety at the gentleman of whose condition he had heard so sad an account; but he could only observe some considerable stiffness of movement and demeanor as Mr. Jones turned his head round to greet him. “This has been a very disagreeable accident, Mr. Jones,” said the husband of the lady. [Illustration] “Accident! I don’t know how it could have been an accident. It has been a most--most-most--a most monstrous--er--er--I must say, interference with a gentleman’s privacy and personal comfort.” “Quite so, Mr. Jones, but--on the part of the lady, who is my wife--” “So I understand. I myself am about to become a married man, and I can understand what your feelings must be. I wish to say as little as possible to harrow them.” Here Mr. Brown bowed. “But--there’s the fact. She did do it.” “She thought it was--me!” “What!” “I give you my word as a gentleman, Mr. Jones. When she was putting that mess upon you, she thought it was me! She did indeed.” Mr. Jones looked at his new acquaintance and shook his head. He did not think it possible that any woman would make such a mistake as that. “I had a very bad sore throat,” continued Mr. Brown, “and indeed you may perceive it still”--in saying this he perhaps aggravated a little the sign of his distemper--“and I asked Mrs. Brown to go down and get one--just what she put on you.” “I wish you’d had it,” said Mr. Jones, putting his hand up to his neck. “I wish I had, for your sake as well as mine, and for hers, poor woman. I don’t know when she will get over the shock.” “I don’t know when I shall. And it has stopped me on my journey. I was to have been to-night, this very night, this Christmas-eve, with the young lady I am engaged to marry. Of course I couldn’t travel. The extent of the injury done nobody can imagine at present.”