Mr. Simpson looked a bit uneasy. “P'r'aps I ought to have told her first,” he murmured, craning his neck to look in the glass at the back of the bar. “I'll go and put it right for you,” said his friend. “You stay here and smoke your pipe.” He stepped out briskly, but his pace slackened as he drew near the house. “I—I—came—to see you about your husband,” he faltered, as Mrs. Simpson opened the door and stood regarding him. “What's the matter?” she exclaimed, with a faint cry. “What's happened to him?” “Nothing,” said Mr. Mills, hastily. “Nothing serious, that is. I just came round to warn you so that you will be able to know it's him.” Mrs. Simpson let off a shriek that set his ears tingling. Then, steadying herself by the wall, she tottered into the front room, followed by the discomfited Mr. Mills, and sank into a chair. “He's dead!” she sobbed. “He's dead!” “He is not,” said Mr. Mills. “Is he much hurt? Is he dying?” gasped Mrs. Simpson. “Only his hair,” said Mr. Mills, clutching at the opening. “He is not hurt at all.” Mrs. Simpson dabbed at her eyes and sat regarding him in bewilderment. Her twin chins were still quivering with emotion, but her eyes were beginning to harden. “What are you talking about?” she inquired, in a raspy voice. “He's been to a hairdresser's,” said Mr. Mills. “He's 'ad all his white whiskers cut off, and his hair cut short and dyed black. And, what with that and his new teeth, I thought—he thought—p'r'aps you mightn't know him when he came home.” “Dyed?” cried Mrs. Simpson, starting to her feet. Mr. Mills nodded. “He looks twenty years younger,” he said, with a smile. “He'd pass for his own son anywhere.” Mrs. Simpson's eyes snapped. “Perhaps he'd pass for _my_ son,” she remarked. “Yes, easy,” said the tactful Mr. Mills. “You can't think what a difference it's made to him. That's why I came to see you—so you shouldn't be startled.” “Thank you,” said Mrs. Simpson. “I'm much obliged. But you might have spared yourself the trouble. I should know my husband anywhere.” “Ah, that's what you think,” retorted Mr. Mills, with a smile; “but the barmaid at the Plume didn't. That's what made me come to you.” Mrs. Simpson gazed at him. “I says to myself,” continued Mr. Mills, “'If _she_ don't know him, I'm certain his missis won't, and I'd better——'” “You'd better go,” interrupted his hostess. Mr. Mills started, and then, with much dignity, stalked after her to the door. “As to your story, I don't believe a word of it,” said Mrs. Simpson. “Whatever else my husband is, he isn't a fool, and he'd no more think of cutting off his whiskers and dyeing his hair than you would of telling the truth.” “Seeing is believing,” said the offended Mr. Mills, darkly. “I'll wait till I do see, and then I sha'n't believe,” was the reply. “It is a put-up job between you and some other precious idiot, I expect. But you can't deceive me. If your black-haired friend comes here, he'll get it, I can tell you.”