"Yes; I'll be cool," said Stratton, mastering himself again, and adopting his visitor's cynical manner. "So let me ask you, sir, who you may be, and what is your object in coming?" The man did not answer for a moment, but let his eyes rest again upon the notes. "I say, who are you, sir?" "I? Oh, nobody of any importance," said the man, with an insolent laugh. Stratton sprang up, and the visitor thrust his hand behind him. "No nonsense, Mr Malcolm. I tell you this is business. Without my consent you cannot marry Myra Barron, formerly Myra Jerrold, this morning." "I say, who are you, sir?" cried Stratton furiously. "James Barron, my dear sir--the lady's husband." "Good God!" CHAPTER TWO. TWO SHOTS FROM A REVOLVER. Malcolm Stratton started back with his eyes wild and his face ghastly, just as there was the faint sound of steps on the stone stairs, and directly after someone gave a long-continued double knock on the outer door. "Company, eh?" said the man, rising. "Get rid of him. I've a lot to say. I'll go in here." He went straight to the doorway on the right of the fireplace. "No, no," cried Stratton harshly; "that is a false door." "False door?" said the man; "is this?" He laid his hand upon the other on the left of the fireplace, and opened it. "All right. Bath room. I'll go in here." As the man shut himself in Stratton reeled as if he would have fallen, but a second _rat-tat_ upon the little brass knocker brought him to himself, and, after a glance at the closet door, he opened that of the entry, and then the outer door, to admit a good looking, fair-haired young fellow of about five-and-twenty, most scrupulously dressed, a creamy rose in his buttonhole, and a look of vexation in his merry face as he stood looking at his white kid gloves. "I say, old chap," he cried, "I shall kill your housekeeper. She must have black-leaded that knocker. Morning. How are you. Pretty well ready?" "Ready?" said Stratton hurriedly. "No, not yet. I'm sure I--" "Why, hullo, old chap; what's the matter?" "Matter? Nothing, nothing." "Well, you look precious seedy. White about the gills. Why, hang it, Malcolm, don't take it like that. Fancy you being nervous. What about? Packed up, I see." "Yes--yes." "Wish it was my turn," continued the newcomer. "Might as well have been two couples: Mr and Mrs Malcolm Stratton; Mr and Mrs Percy Guest. Why, I say, old chap, you are ill." "No, no," cried Stratton hurriedly; and a sudden thought struck him. Catching up the telegram from the table, he handed it to his friend. "Hullo! Nothing serious? Poof! What a molehill mountain. You shouldn't let a thing like this agitate your noble nerves. Bless the dear little woman. I'll run on to Common Garden, Central Avenue, as we say in some suckles, bully the beggar for not sending it, start him, and be back for you in a jiffy."