Simms in his electric brougham passed through the gas-lit streets in the direction of the Strand, glancing at the night pageant of London, but seeing nothing. I love to linger over Simms, but what pages of description could adequately describe him; buxom, sedate, plump and soothing, with the appearance of having been born and bred in a frock-coat, above all things discreet; you can fancy him stepping out of his brougham, passing into the hall of the hotel and presenting his card to the clerk with a request for an interview with the manager. The manager being away, his deputy supplied his place. "Yes, an American gentleman of the name of Jones had stayed in the hotel and on the night of the first of June had met with 'an accident' on the underground railway. The police had taken charge of the business. What address had he given when booking his room? An address in Philadelphia. Walnut Street, Philadelphia." "Thanks," said Simms, "I came to enquire because a patient of mine fancied, seeing the report, that it might be a relative. She must have been mistaken, for her relative resides in the city of New York. Thank you--quite so--good evening." In the hall Simms hesitated for a moment, then he asked a page boy for the American bar, found it and ordered a glass of soda water. There were only one or two men in the bar and as Simms paid for his drink he had a word with the bar tender. "Did he remember some days ago seeing two gentlemen in the bar who were very much alike?" The bar tender did, and as an indication how in huge hotels dramatic happenings may pass unknown to the staff not immediately concerned, he had never connected Jones with the American gentleman of whose unhappy demise he had read in the papers. He was quite free in his talk. The likeness had struck him forcibly, never seen two gentlemen so like one another, dressed differently, but still like. His assistant had seen them too. "Quite so," said Simms; "they are friends of mine and I hoped to see them again here this evening--perhaps they are waiting in the lounge." He finished his soda water and walked off. He sought the telephone office and rang up Curzon Street. The Duke of Melford had dined at home but had gone out. He was at the Buffs' Club in Piccadilly. Simms drove to the Club. The Duke was in the library. His Grace had literary leanings. His "History of the Siege of Bundlecund," of which seven hundred copies of the first edition remained unsold, had not deterred him from attempting the "Siege of Jutjutpore." He wrote a good deal in the library of the club, and to-night he was in the act of taking down some notes on the character of Fooze Ali, the leader of the besiegers, when Simms was announced. The library was deserted by all save the historian, and getting together into a cosy corner, the two men talked. "Your Grace," said Simms, "we have made a mistake. Your nephew is dead and that man we have placed with Dr. Hoover is what he announced himself to be."