Mr. Tovey stepped out smartly along Chapel Street, across the Edgware Road, and entered Praed Street. Despite the depressing weather, the pavements seemed to be full of people, groups of whom overflowed into the roadway, only to be driven back helterskelter by the menacing onrush of the motor-buses. Mr. Tovey picked his way through the crowd with the consciousness of the importance of his mission. So intent was he upon reaching his goal, and, having played his part, upon regaining the comfort of his own fireside, that he scarcely spared a glance for the lighted window above Sam Copperdock’s shop. Ivy was behind that drawn curtain, no doubt. He might drop in and pick her up on his way home. He certainly could not stop now. With a due sense of dignity he climbed the steps of the main entrance of St. Martha’s, and nodded familiarly to the porter in the hall. “My name’s Tovey,” he said, “you rang me up just now to come and identify an accident case.” The porter looked at him incredulously. “Rang you up? ’Oo rang you up? First I’ve ’eard of it.” Mr. Tovey clicked his tongue impatiently. “Why, not more than a quarter of an hour ago,” he replied. “Man been run over, and you couldn’t find out who he was.” “We ain’t ’ad no accidents brought in the ’ole blessed day,” returned the porter stolidly. “You’ve made a bloomer, you ’ave. Wait ’ere a moment while I goes and sees if anybody knows anything about it. Tobey, did you say your name was?” “Tovey!” replied that individual angrily. The porter turned his back upon him and disappeared, his boots clattering noisily upon the tiled floor. Mr. Tovey, with a sudden reaction from his excited imaginings, stood cold and miserable in the centre of a puddle formed by the drops from his overcoat. After what seemed an interminable time the porter returned. “Somebody’s bin pulling your leg,” he said, with a malicious grin. “We ain’t ’ad no accidents, and nobody ’ere ain’t ever ’eard of you. Didn’t get the name of the ’orspital wrong, did you? Wasn’t St. George’s, was it, or maybe St. Thomas’s?” Mr. Tovey shook his head. “No, it was St. Martha’s, right enough,” he replied. A sudden wave of anger at the hoax which had been played upon him surged through his brain, and without another word he turned and strode out of the hall. It was monstrous that he, a citizen and a rate-payer, should be dragged out into the streets on a fool’s errand like this. With his grievance rankling to the exclusion of every other thought, he pushed his way along Praed Street, his head down, his hands crammed into his overcoat pockets. The drizzle had turned to sleet, and the sting of it on his face added to his ill-humour.