This, the Englishman felt, was going too far. It was bad enough to have to impersonate such a fellow as "Slippery Dick," but to endow him with a fictitious history that was at all comparable with Faro Charlie's account of his earlier years required too great an effort of imagination. And the fact that a quiet little man, who was sitting near by, edged up his chair and seemed deeply interested in the conversation, did not tend to put him more at his ease. No wonder, he thought, the Consul did not talk much about his brother. He therefore hastened to change the subject. "Have you seen much of the Indians lately?" he ventured; it seemed such a safe topic. "Thinking of that little squaw you was so chummy with down to Injun Reservation?" queried his friend, punching him jovially in the ribs. "You knew, didn't you, that they'd had her up for horse-stealing to Fort Smith? Reckon as they'd a hung her if she hadn't been a woman. She was a limb! Guess you had your hands full when you tackled her." Scarsdale decided his choice of a subject had not been fortunate, and begged Faro Charlie to have some more whisky. "Sure," replied that individual. "Drink with you all night." "I'm afraid you can't do that," replied Scarsdale, hastening to rid himself of his unwelcome friend. "I have some important business to attend to this evening." "I wish you weren't in such a rush. Come back and we'll paint the town, eh?" Scarsdale thought it extremely unlikely, and shaking hands fled to the street with a sigh of relief; for he had had a very bad quarter of an hour. What cursed luck that he should have run across this American horror! He must avoid him at all costs to-morrow morning. In his hurry he had not noticed that the quiet little man had left the winter garden with him. His one thought was to get away. He determined to send that telegram to Basingstoke at once, and go to bed before any one else recognised him: one of Slippery Dick's friends was enough. But unkind fate had not yet done with him, and a new and more terrible surprise was in store for the unfortunate bridegroom. He had scarcely gone a dozen yards from the hotel entrance, when a voice said just beside him: "Excuse me, Mr. Richard Allingford, but may I have a few words with you?" Scarsdale turned, and finding himself face to face with the quiet little man, who had seemed so interested in his conversation of a few moments ago, said: "I seem to be in great demand to-night. Why do you wish to see me? I don't know you." "No," said the man who stood beside him. "No, you do not know me, Mr. Richard Allingford; but you will." He was a quiet, unpretending little man; but there was something about his dress and bearing, and the snap with which he shut his jaw at the end of a sentence, an air of decision, in short, which caused the Englishman to feel that he would do well to conciliate this stranger, whoever he might be, so he said shortly: