"All old men are about the same size," said Lord Badgery. It was a comforting theory. "Ah, here he is. Have you got a spare suit of evening clothes, Boreham?" "I have an old suit, my lord, that I stopped wearing in let me see was it nineteen seven or eight?" "That's the very thing. I should be most grateful, Boreham, if you could lend it to me for Mr. Spode here for a day." The old man went out, and soon reappeared carrying over his arm a very old black suit. He held up the coat and trousers for inspection. In the light of day they were deplorable. "You've no idea, sir," said Boreham deprecatingly to Spode you've no idea how easy things get stained with grease and gravy and what not. However careful you are, sir--however careful. "I should imagine so." Spode was sympathetic. "However careful, sir." "But in artificial light they'll look all right." "Perfectly all right," Lord Badgery repeated. "Thank you, Boreham; you shall have them back on Thursday." "You re welcome, my lord, I'm sure." And the old man bowed and disappeared. On the afternoon of the great day Spode carried up to Holloway a parcel containing Boreham's retired evening-suit and all the necessary appurtenances in the way of shirts and collars. Owing to the darkness and his own feeble sight Mr. Tillotson was happily unaware of the defects in the suit. He was in a state of extreme nervous agitation. It was with some difficulty that Spode could prevent him, although it was only three o'clock, from starting his toilet on the spot. "Take it easy, Mr. Tillotson, take it easy. We needn't start till half-past seven, you know." Spode left an hour later, and as soon as he was safely out of the room Mr. Tillotson began to prepare himself for the banquet. He lighted the gas and a couple of candles, and, blinking myopically at the image that fronted him in the tiny looking-glass that stood on his chest of drawers, he set to work, with all the ardour of a young girl preparing for her first ball. At six o'clock, when the last touches had been given, he was not unsatisfied. He marched up and down his cellar, humming to himself the gay song which had been so popular in his middle years: "_Oh, oh, Anna, Maria Jones!_ _Queen of the tambourine, the cymbals, and the bones!_"