LITMIR.BIZ

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opened the door. “It’s a mistake anybody might make.”

      He pushed Mr. Henshaw into the street as the landlord placed a hand on the flap of the bar, and followed him out.

      “You’ll have to ‘ave a bad cold and talk in ‘usky whispers,” he said slowly, as they walked along. “You caught a cold travelling in the train from Ireland day before yesterday, and you made it worse going for a ride on the outside of a ‘bus with me and a couple o’ ladies. See? Try ‘usky whispers now.”

      Mr. Henshaw tried, and his friend, observing that he was taking but a languid interest in the scheme, was loud in his praises. “I should never ‘ave known you,” he declared. “Why, it’s wonderful! Why didn’t you tell me you could act like that?”

      Mr. Henshaw remarked modestly that he had not been aware of it himself, and, taking a more hopeful view of the situation, whispered himself into such a state of hoarseness that another visit for refreshment became absolutely necessary.

      “Keep your ‘art up and practise,” said Mr. Stokes, as he shook hands with him some time later. “And If you can manage it, get off at four o’clock to-morrow and we’ll go round to see her while she thinks you’re still at work.”

      Mr. Henshaw complimented him upon his artfulness, and, with some confidence in a man of such resource, walked home in a more cheerful frame of mind. His heart sank as he reached the house, but to his relief the lights were out and his wife was in bed.

      He was up early next morning, but his wife showed no signs of rising. The cupboard was still empty, and for some time he moved about hungry and undecided. Finally he mounted the stairs again, and with a view to arranging matters for the evening remonstrated with her upon her behavior and loudly announced his intention of not coming home until she was in a better frame of mind. From a disciplinary point of view the effect of the remonstrance was somewhat lost by being shouted through the closed door, and he also broke off too abruptly when Mrs. Henshaw opened it suddenly and confronted him. Fragments of the peroration reached her through the front door.

      Despite the fact that he left two hours earlier, the day passed but slowly, and he was in a very despondent state of mind by the time he reached Mr. Stokes’s lodging. The latter, however, had cheerfulness enough for both, and, after helping his visitor to change into fresh clothes and part his hair in the middle instead of at the side, surveyed him with grinning satisfaction. Under his directions Mr. Henshaw also darkened his eyebrows and beard with a little burnt cork until Mr. Stokes declared that his own mother wouldn’t know him.

      “Now, be careful,” said Mr. Stokes, as they set off. “Be bright and cheerful; be a sort o’ ladies’ man to her, same as she saw you with the one on the ‘bus. Be as unlike yourself as you can, and don’t forget yourself and call her by ‘er pet name.”

      “Pet name!” said Mr. Henshaw, indignantly. “Pet name! You’ll alter your ideas of married life when you’re caught, my lad, I can tell you!”

      He walked on in scornful silence, lagging farther and farther behind as they neared his house. When Mr. Stokes knocked at the door he stood modestly aside with his back against the wall of the next house.

      “Is George in?” inquired Mr. Stokes, carelessly, as Mrs. Henshaw opened the door.

      “No,” was the reply.

      Mr. Stokes affected to ponder; Mr. Henshaw instinctively edged away.

      “He ain’t in,” said Mrs. Henshaw, preparing to close the door.

      “I wanted to see him partikler,” said Mr. Stokes, slowly. “I brought a friend o’ mine, name o’ Alfred Bell, up here on purpose to see ‘im.”

      Mrs. Henshaw, following the direction of his eyes, put her head round the door.

      “George!” she exclaimed, sharply.

      Mr. Stokes smiled. “That ain’t George,” he said, gleefully; “That’s my friend, Mr. Alfred Bell. Ain’t it a extraordinary likeness? Ain’t it wonderful? That’s why I brought ‘im up; I wanted George to see ‘im.”

      Mrs. Henshaw looked from one to the other in wrathful bewilderment.

      “His living image, ain’t he?” said Mr. Stokes. “This is my pal George’s missis,” he added, turning to Mr. Bell.

      “Good afternoon to you,” said that gentleman, huskily.

      “He got a bad cold coming from Ireland,” explained Mr. Stokes, “and, foolish-like, he went outside a ‘bus with me the other night and made it worse.”

      “Oh-h!” said Mrs. Henshaw, slowly. “Indeed! Really!”

      “He’s quite curious to see George,” said Mr. Stokes. “In fact, he was going back to Ireland tonight if it ‘adn’t been for that. He’s waiting till to-morrow just to see George.”

      Mr. Bell, in a voice huskier than ever, said that he had altered his mind again.

      “Nonsense!” said Mr. Stokes, sternly. “Besides, George would like to see you. I s’pose he won’t be long?” he added, turning to Mrs. Henshaw, who was regarding Mr. Bell much as a hungry cat regards a plump sparrow.

      “I don’t suppose so,” she said, slowly.

      “I dare say if we wait a little while—” began Mr. Stokes, ignoring a frantic glance from Mr. Henshaw.

      “Come in,” said Mrs. Henshaw, suddenly.

      Mr. Stokes entered and, finding that his friend hung back, went out again and half led, half pushed him indoors. Mr. Bell’s shyness he attributed to his having lived so long in Ireland.

      “He is quite the ladies’ man, though,” he said, artfully, as they followed their hostess into the front room. “You should ha’ seen ‘im the other night on the ‘bus. We had a couple o’ lady friends o’ mine with us, and even the conductor was surprised at his goings on.”

      Mr. Bell, by no means easy as to the results of the experiment, scowled at him despairingly.

      “Carrying on, was he?” said Mrs. Henshaw, regarding the culprit steadily.

      “Carrying on like one o’clock,” said the imaginative Mr. Stokes. “Called one of ‘em ‘is little wife, and asked her where ‘er wedding-ring was.”

      “I didn’t,” said Mr. Bell, in a suffocating voice. “I didn’t.”

      “There’s nothing to be ashamed of,” said Mr. Stokes, virtuously. “Only, as I said to you at the time, ‘Alfred,’ I says, ‘it’s all right for you as a single man, but you might be the twin-brother of a pal o’ mine—George Henshaw by name—and if some people was to see you they might think it was ‘im Didn’t I say that?”

      “You did,” said Mr. Bell, helplessly.

      “And he wouldn’t believe me,” said Mr. Stokes, turning to Mrs. Henshaw. “That’s why I brought him round to see George.”

      “I should like to see the two of ‘em together myself,” said Mrs. Henshaw, quietly. “I should have taken him for my husband anywhere.”

      “You wouldn’t if you’d seen ‘im last night,” said Mr. Stokes, shaking his head and smiling.

      “Carrying on again, was he?” inquired Mrs. Henshaw, quickly.

      “No!” said Mr. Bell, in a stentorian whisper.

      His glance was so fierce that Mr. Stokes almost quailed. “I won’t tell tales out of school,” he said, nodding.

      “Not if I ask you to?” said Mrs. Henshaw, with a winning smile.

      “Ask ‘im,” said Mr. Stokes.

      “Last night,” said the whisperer, hastily, “I went for a quiet walk round Victoria Park all by myself. Then I met Mr. Stokes, and we had one half-pint together at a public-house. That’s all.”

      Mrs. Henshaw looked at Mr. Stokes. Mr. Stokes winked at her.

      “It’s as true as my

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