“It’ll be a lot less cheerful if they ever get me on the stand. My lawyer was to have warned me in time to get away, but the other side stole a march on him, and I barely managed to sneak out in this disguise. So I was going to lie low at Harmon’s place until they gave up the chase. But as matters are, I can stick to my whiskers and my accent a while longer. And, really, much as I should like to continue this prose poem of ours, I think that for the sake of—well, of appearances, I’d better go on somewhere else. Unless you’re quite sure that Mrs. Bond is there and—” “She is,” broke in Darcy. “I’ve had a telegram.” “In that case—” “In that case, you come along in the car with me. I won’t have your trip spoiled. Besides, don’t you think I have some curiosity in my make-up? I’ve got to see you without yours, or perish!” There was no irruption of the newly-weds to complicate matters. The pseudo-weds had sandwiches and ginger ale in the observation car and sat there getting better acquainted and more content with each other until the “Chorea’s” porter sought them out. “Drawin’-rooms is bofe gone,” he said. “A got off at Ashlan’ an’ B lef’ at Meredith. S’pi-cioned you-all might lak to know.” His suspicion brought its reward. Ten minutes before the arrival at Weirs, Darcy’s confederate excused himself. “You get out by yourself,” he said. “I’ll join you on the platform.” Not yet comprehending, she followed instructions. Shortly after, there descended in front of the jaw-loose and petrified porter the ultra-British ulster, and the forceful tweed suit, enclosing not a bewhiskered, monocled, and blond Englishman, but a smooth-faced, pleasant-visaged young man who looked out upon the world from his own unaided, keen, and twink-ing eyes. As the train pulled out with the porter still bulging, incredulous, from the door, the changeling turned to join his self-appointed bride. “How do you do, Mr. Remsen?” said she. For the second time that day sheer amazement loosed the hinges of Mr. Jacob Remsen’s knees, and the wellsprings of Mr. Jacob Remsen’s sincere American speech. “Well, I _am_ jiggered!” gasped Mr. Jacob Remsen, tottering back against a truck. CHAPTER XIII R. JACOB REMSEN, late Rodney Carteret, Esq., of Somewhere-in-England, was roused from his Semi-paralysis by a broad and bearded native who approached, and, with a friendly grin, inclusive of both parties to the _vis-à-vis_, inquired: “Either of yeh Miss Cole for Boulder Brook?” “Both,” said Darcy. “Haw!” barked the native. “That is, we are both going to Mr. Harmon’s.” “Free bus to Boulder Brook,” proclaimed the humorous native. “It’s jest as well there’s two of ye, though Mr. Tom didn’t say nothin’ about more’n one. Ye won’t rattle s’ much when we hit the rocks.” “I joined the party at the last moment,” explained the impromptu bridegroom. “I’m for the Bungalow.” “Ye’ll be there before ye know it. Twenty-one mile in twenty-eight minutes, comin’ over in the ole boat.”