“I’m sure I don’t know what to make of it,” said Mrs. Henshaw, with a bewildered air. “Ted Stokes brought round a man named Bell this afternoon so like you that I can’t tell the difference. I don’t know what to do, but I do know this—I don’t let you in until I have seen you both together, so that I can tell which is which.” “Both together!” exclaimed the startled Mr. Henshaw. “Here—look here!” He struck a match and, holding it before his face, looked up at the window. Mrs. Henshaw scrutinized him gravely. “It’s no good,” she said, despairingly. “I can’t tell. I must see you both together.” Mr. Henshaw ground his teeth. “But where is he?” he inquired. “He went off with Ted Stokes,” said his wife. “If you’re George you’d better go and ask him.” She prepared to close the window, but Mr. Henshaw’s voice arrested her. “And suppose he is not there?” he said. Mrs. Henshaw reflected. “If he is not there bring Ted Stokes back with you,” she said at last, “and if he says you’re George, I’ll let you in.” The window closed and the light disappeared. Mr. Henshaw waited for some time, but in vain, and, with a very clear idea of the reception he would meet with at the hands of Mr. Stokes, set off to his lodging. If anything, he had underestimated his friend’s powers. Mr. Stokes, rudely disturbed just as he had got into bed, was the incarnation of wrath. He was violent, bitter, and insulting in a breath, but Mr. Henshaw was desperate, and Mr. Stokes, after vowing over and over again that nothing should induce him to accompany him back to his house, was at last so moved by his entreaties that he went upstairs and equipped himself for the journey. “And, mind, after this I never want to see your face again,” he said, as they walked swiftly back. Mr. Henshaw made no reply. The events of the day had almost exhausted him, and silence was maintained until they reached the house. Much to his relief he heard somebody moving about upstairs after the first knock, and in a very short time the window was gently raised and Mrs. Henshaw looked out. “What, you’ve come back?” she said, in a low, intense voice. “Well, of all the impudence! How dare you carry on like this?” “It’s me,” said her husband. “Yes, I see it is,” was the reply. “It’s him right enough; it’s your husband,” said Mr. Stokes. “Alfred Bell has gone.” “How dare you stand there and tell me them falsehoods!” exclaimed Mrs. Henshaw. “I wonder the ground don’t open and swallow you up. It’s Mr. Bell, and if he don’t go away I’ll call the police.” Messrs. Henshaw and Stokes, amazed at their reception, stood blinking up at her. Then they conferred in whispers. “If you can’t tell ’em apart, how do you know this is Mr. Bell?” inquired Mr. Stokes, turning to the window again. “How do I know?” repeated Mrs. Henshaw. “How do I know? Why, because my husband came home almost directly Mr. Bell had gone. I wonder he didn’t meet him.” “Came home?” cried Mr. Henshaw, shrilly. “_Came home_?”