Suddenly Billie had an inspiration. It was hopeless, she knew, to try to convince this poor demented creature, obsessed with his _idée fixe_, that she was not Miss Milliken. Denial would be a waste of time, and might even infuriate him into precipitating the tragedy. It was imperative that she should humour him. And, while she was humouring him, it suddenly occurred to her, why not do it thoroughly? “Mr. Peters,” she cried, “you are quite mistaken!” “I beg your pardon,” said Jno. Peters, with not a little asperity. “Nothing of the kind!” “You are!” “I assure you I am not. Quickness in the draw is essential....” “You have been misinformed.” “Well, I had it direct from the man at the Rupert Street range,” said Mr. Peters stiffly. “And if you have ever seen a picture called ‘Two-Gun Thomas’....” “Mr. Peters,” cried Billie desperately. He was making her head swim with his meaningless ravings. “Mr. Peters, hear me! I am not married to a man at Ealing West!” Mr. Peters betrayed no excitement at the information. This girl seemed for some reason to consider her situation an extraordinary one, but many women, he was aware, were in a similar position. In fact, he could not at the moment think of any of his feminine acquaintances who _were_ married to men at Ealing West. “Indeed?” he said politely. “Won’t you believe me?” exclaimed Billie wildly. “Why, certainly, certainly,” said Jno. Peters. “Thank God!” said Billie. “I’m not even engaged! It’s all been a terrible mistake!” When two people in a small room are speaking on two distinct and different subjects and neither knows what on earth the other is driving at, there is bound to be a certain amount of mental confusion; but at this point Jno. Peters, though still not wholly equal to the intellectual pressure of the conversation, began to see a faint shimmer of light behind the clouds. In a nebulous kind of way he began to understand that the girl had come to consult the firm about a breach-of-promise action. Some unknown man at Ealing West had been trifling with her heart—hardened lawyer’s clerk as he was, that poignant cry “I’m not even engaged!” had touched Mr. Peters—and she wished to start proceedings. Mr. Peters felt almost in his depth again. He put the revolver in his pocket, and drew out a note-book. “I should be glad to hear the facts,” he said with professional courtesy. “In the absence of the guv’nor....” “I have told you the facts!” “This man at Ealing West,” said Mr. Peters, moistening the point of his pencil, “he wrote you letters proposing marriage?” “No, no, no!” “At any rate,” said Mr. Peters, disappointed but hopeful, “he made love to you before witnesses?” “Never! Never! There is no man at Ealing West! There never was a man at Ealing West!”