"And _I_ don't know whether to answer as Mr. Jones or not!" he said to himself in a panic. He might turn away a note of warning from his father, who possibly had recognized his handwriting on the register, of greeting from Leonora in whose face he had seen an appalled commiseration as he sped past her yesterday in his father's hall; or it might be that some Confederate agent within the lines would hear of his plight and contrive this way to communicate with him. No matter how cautiously worded, his was not a correspondence at this juncture to decline to receive, and to turn lightly over to the investigating scrutiny of all the A. Joneses to whom it might be presented. On the other hand he might "throw all the fat in the fire," should he meddle with the large correspondence of the Jones family by opening sealed missives bearing their name, obviously not intended for him, if he had registered as Abner Smith. Julius was about to spring up, throw on his clothes, and rush to the register, when the name struck him with the force of conviction. _John Wray_--That was it! _Manchester, England!_ The address had been selected to take advantage of the typically English clothes. He meditated upon it as he sat upright in bed. He had added the "Junior," for the sake of verisimilitude. He smiled with satisfaction to have regained it. Then--"I must have something to fix that in my memory," he said. He looked fruitlessly about. He had no paper, save the map in the lining of his boot, no pencil, no pen and ink, naught for a memorandum. Then with his gay youthful inconsequence--"Constant repetition will settle it--Mr. John Wray--Mr. John Wray; Mr. John Wray. How do you do to-day?" He threw himself back on his pillow, laughing at the unintentional rhyme. "I'm a poet--if I did but know it!" His irrepressible youthful mirth found its account in the most untoward trifles. "There it is again!" he said to himself, "I have destroyed the sequence of my ideas. I am just as likely now to say, 'I am Mr. Poet'--or perhaps with the notion that I have got to butt out of this somehow--'I am Mr. Goat!'" He laughed again, yawned lazily, stretched his arms upward, and fell back luxuriously on the bed, resting his tired muscles. He lay staring at the design of the wall-paper, which was in scrolls of brown that, as they whorled over clear enamelled spaces of creamy white, enclosed an outline in fainter browns and yellow,--a scene of waves breaking on rocks and surmounted by a lighthouse; a far and foreign suggestion to this deeply inland nook, and refreshing, for there was more than vernal warmth in the air. And presently, still repeating--"Mr. John Wray, how do you do to-day?" he slipped off into a half-conscious doze from which he was roused only by a knock at the door. CHAPTER XII