“If your wife don't know you, how do you think I can?” said Mr. Cooper. “Now, look here; you keep quiet till my brother-in-law comes home. If he don't come home perhaps we shall be more likely to think you're him. If he's not home by to-morrow morning we—_Hsh! Hsh!_ Don't you know there's ladies present?” “That settles it,” said Mrs. Cooper, speaking for the first time. “My brother-in-law would never talk like that.” “I should never forgive him if he did,” said her husband, piously. He poured himself out another glass of beer and resumed his supper with relish. Conversation turned on the weather, and from that to the price of potatoes. Frantic efforts on the part of the prisoner to join in the conversation and give it a more personal turn were disregarded. Finally he began to kick with monotonous persistency on the door. “Stop it!” shouted Mr. Cooper. “I won't,” said Mr. Simpson. The noise became unendurable. Mr. Cooper, who had just lit his pipe, laid it on the table and looked round at his companions. “He'll have the door down soon,” he said, rising. “Halloa, there!” “Halloa!” said the other. “You say you're Bill Simpson,” said Mr. Cooper, holding up a forefinger at Mrs. Simpson, who was about to interrupt. “If you are, tell us something you know that only you could know; something we know, so as to identify you. Things about your past.” A strange noise sounded behind the door. “Sounds as though he _is_ smacking his lips,” said Mrs. Cooper to her sister-in-law, who was eyeing Mr. Cooper restlessly. “Very good,” said Mr. Simpson; “I agree. Who is there?” “Me and my wife and Mrs. Simpson,” said Mr. Cooper. “He is smacking his lips,” whispered Mrs. Cooper. “Having a go at the beer, perhaps.” “Let's go back fifteen years,” said Mr. Simpson in meditative tones. “Do you remember that girl with copper-coloured hair that used to live in John Street?” “No!” said Mr. Cooper, loudly and suddenly. “Do you remember coming to me one day—two days after Valentine Day, it was—white as chalk and shaking like a leaf, and—” “NO!” roared Mr. Cooper. “Very well, I must try something else, then,” said Mr. Simpson, philosophically. “Carry your mind back ten years, Bob Cooper—” “Look here!” said Mr. Cooper, turning round with a ghastly smile. “We'd better get off home, Mary. I don't like interfering in other people's concerns. Never did.” “You stay where you are,” said his wife. “Ten years,” repeated the voice behind the door. “There was a new barmaid at the Crown, and one night you——” “If I listen to any more of this nonsense I shall burst,” remarked Mr. Cooper, plaintively. “Go on,” prompted Mrs. Cooper, grimly. “One night——” “Never mind,” said Mr. Simpson. “It doesn't matter. But does he identify me? Because if not I've got a lot more things I can try.” The harassed Mr. Cooper looked around appealingly. “How do you expect me to recognize you—” he began, and stopped suddenly.