A pair of subfusc coloured trousers creased and looking absolutely new were presented to him in the same manner. He was allowed to put on his own socks, silk and never worn before, but he was not allowed to put on his own boots. The perfect valet did that kneeling before him, shoe horn and button hook in hand. Having inducted him into a pink silk under vest and a soft pleated shirt, with plain gold links in the sleeves, each button of the said links having in its centre a small black pearl, a collar and a subfusc coloured silk tie were added to him, also a black morning vest and a black morning coat, with rather broad braid at the edges. A handkerchief of pure white cambric with a tiny monogram also in white was then shaken out and presented. Then his valet, intent, silent, and seeming to move by clockwork, passed to a table on which stood a small oak cabinet. Opening the cabinet he took from it and placed on the table a watch and chain. His duties were now finished, and, according to some prescribed rule, he left the room carefully and softly, closing the door behind him. Jones took up the watch and chain. The watch was as thin as a five shilling piece, the chain was a mere thread of gold. It was an evening affair, to be worn with dress clothes, and this fact presented to the mind of Jones a confirmation of the idea that, not only was he literally in Rochester's shoes, but that Rochester's ordinary watch and chain had not returned. He sat down for a moment to consider another point. His own old Waterbury and rolled gold chain, and the few unimportant letters in his pockets--where were they? He determined to clear this matter at once, and boldly rang the bell. The valet answered it. "When I came back last night--er--was there anything in my pockets?" asked he. "No, my Lord. They had taken everything from the pockets." "No watch and chain?" "No, my Lord." "Have you the clothes I came back in?" "Yes, my Lord." "Go and fetch them." The man disappeared and returned in a minute with a bundle of clothes neatly folded on his arm. "Mr. Church told me to keep them careful, lest you'd want to put the matter in the hands of the police, my Lord, shockin' old things they are." Jones examined the clothes. They were his own. Everything he had worn yesterday lay there, and the sight of them filled his mind with a nostalgia and a desire for them--a home sickness and a clothes sickness--beyond expression. He was absolutely sure from the valet's manner that the servants were not "in the know." A wild impulse came on him to take the exhibitor of these remnants of his past into his confidence. To say right out: "I'm Jones. Victor Jones of Philadelphia. I'm no Lord. Here, gimme those clothes and let me out of this--let's call it quits."