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Virgil Pardoner.

“Now address it,” said Sarah, “and send for a stamp.”

Pardoner hesitated.

“I’ld, er, I’ld like to sleep on it,” he said. “I mean, it’s—it’s a ticklish business.”

Miss Vulliamy indicated an envelope with a firm pointed finger.

“Pretty hands you’ve got,” said Virgil musingly. “Pretty nails, too.”

“What are June’s like?”

“Oh, very good,” said Virgil. “Full of character, you know. But yours are bewitching. That left one——”

“Apostate,” said Sarah. “And now address this envelope.”

Virgil did so laboriously.

Miss June Townshend,

The Rectory,

Roughbridge,

Lincolnshire.

They posted the letter together, before they parted.

It was two days later that Mrs. Purdoe Blewitt was seriously annoyed.

“Such impudence,” she said, bristling. “As if she were the daughter of the house....”

The Reverend Purdoe Blewitt, Rector of Loughbridge, laid down his pen.

“What is the matter, my dear?”

His wife stabbed at the bell and flounced into a chair before replying.

“Jane, of course,” she snorted. “Fortunately, I met the postman, or I should never have known.” She tapped a letter with meaning. “She’s still doing it.”

The Rector knew better than to inquire the nature of the iniquity. Mrs. Blewitt believed in remembering her servants’ offences and expected this belief to be shared. He assumed an aggravated look.

“How very trying,” he said, playing for safety. “I should say to her that the next time she does it——”

“Does what?” said his wife.

The Rector started guiltily.

“I understood you to say, my dear,” he faltered, “that she was still doing it.”

“So she is,” said his wife.

The Reverend Purdoe Blewitt put a hand to his head.

“It’s not nice of her,” he said, blindly endeavouring to avoid collision. “Not at all nice. I mean——”

Here he observed that his wife was surveying him with a profound contempt, and quailed accordingly.

The appearance of a pert parlourmaid postponed his chastisement.

“Jane,” said Mrs. Blewitt, at once averting her face and stretching forth the letter as though it were some contagious body, “I suppose it is not the slightest good desiring you to remember that your address is not The Rectory, Loughbridge, but c/o The Rev. Purdoe Blewitt, The Rectory, Loughbridge. However, for what it is worth, I will again point out that, even if you were here as a guest—which you are not—it would be the essence of bad taste to omit the Rector’s name from the head of your notepaper.”

“An’ if,” sweetly rejoined Miss Townshend, taking the letter, “if your gues’s frien’s—not knowin’ you—didn’t take no notice of what was wrote at the ’ead of the notepaper, I s’pose your gues’s ’ld still get it in the neck.” Mrs. Purdoe Blewitt recoiled, and the Rector emitted a protesting noise. “You know, you’re too particular to live, you are; and p’raps you’ll take this as notice. Servants aren’t no good to you. What you want is ’alf a dozen Archangels—and then you’ld show ’em ’ow to wear their wings.”

Apparently unable to speak, Mrs. Blewitt, crimson with fury, clawed at the air, while the Rector, feeling that something must be done, rose to his feet and cleared his throat.

Ere words came, however, Miss Townshend was out of the room.

The look of her letter was promising.

This had been addressed to ‘Roughbridge,’ but, there being no such place, the Post Office had risen to the occasion and above the mistake.

Five days had gone by since Mrs. Purdoe Blewitt had been so annoyed, and Pardoner and Miss Vulliamy were dining together, ostensibly to discuss arrangements for their alliance, actually because they enjoyed each other’s company.

“I wonder she hasn’t replied,” said Sarah, obediently sipping her champagne.

Virgil shrugged his shoulders.

“I daresay she won’t,” he said. “She’s very considerate. I mean, it’s delicate ground, and it’ld be just like June if she sank her own feelings and, er, let bygones be bygones.”

His fiancée shook her head.

“If she doesn’t answer,” she said, “I shall be really worried. Silence can only mean one of two things: either that she doesn’t know how to behave——”

“Oh, she knows how to behave all right.”

“—or that she’s almost beside herself.”

“No, no,” said Virgil. “June’s not that kind of girl. I shan’t be at all surprised, if she doesn’t reply. In fact, I should be rather surprised, if she did. You know, I had a feeling, when I wrote that letter, that it would never be answered. You see, June——”

“But you used to kiss her, you know.”

Pardoner pulled his moustache.

“Once in a while,” he said. “But I never made a meal of it. It was more of a salute.”

Miss Vulliamy stared across the room.

“I think,” she said softly, “your love for her is very beautiful.”

“Was,” said Virgil uneasily. “I’ve—I’ve trodden it under.”

Sarah shuddered.

“Hush,” she said. “Hush. Don’t talk like that, Virgil. It’s—it’s blasphemy.”

As she spoke, a page came to the table.

“Mr. Pardoner, sir?”

“Yes,” said Virgil.

“Miss Townshend would like to speak to you, sir, on the telephone.”

Pardoner started. Then he turned to Sarah with a sheepish smile.

“Who’s come in on this little deal?” he demanded.

“Whatever d’you mean?” said Miss Vulliamy, striving to keep her voice steady.

“Nothing doing,” said Virgil, continuing to smile. “Admit it’s a plant.”

“By all that’s solemn,” said Sarah. “I swear I’ve nothing to do with it.”

“But you’ve——”

“I haven’t, Virgil. I swear I haven’t, I’ld—I’ld be ashamed,” she added tearfully.

Three times did her betrothed endeavour to speak.

At the fourth attempt—

“Must be some mistake,” he muttered, wiping his brow. Then he turned to the page. “All right. I’ll come.”

He bowed an apology to Sarah and followed his executioner out of the room....

Of the two, Sarah was, if possible, the more dumbfounded.

Upon the very first evening she had made up her mind that Miss June Townshend was non-existent. She could have sworn that Pardoner had invented the lady, to be a foil to George Fulke. Gleefully, she had decided to turn the foil into a lash to be laid mischievously about her fiancé’s shoulders. The laborious drafting of the letter to June had afforded her the highest gratification, and her searching cross-examinations of Virgil upon his associations with the lady had never failed to bear her most refreshing fruit. Now, without a word of warning, the Palace of Fun had fallen, and out of the ruins were sticking some extremely ill-favoured truths. The very least of these was suggesting that the edifice had been erected upon a foundation of distasteful fact.

It was while she was staring at Virgil’s empty place, considering these things, that for the first time she realized something which was still more to the point. This was that with her future husband she was most heartily in love....

Pardoner walked down the hall, thinking furiously. Arrived at the box, he took the spare receiver and told the page to speak for him.

“Say you can’t find me,” he said, “and ask her to leave a message.”

The boy did so.

A voice, which was anything but gentle, replied:

“All right, I’ll come round.”

Virgil blenched.

“Say I’m not living here, and you don’t know my address.”

“Then why you ask me to leave a message,” flashed Miss Townshend.

“Er—on the chance,” stammered the page.

“Well, ’ere it is—on the chance,” said Jane. “I’ll be round in ’alf an hour.”

The receiver was slammed into place.

Virgil and the page stared at one another in dismay.

Then the former said an extremely unpleasant word under his breath and erupted violently from the box...

Miss Vulliamy greeted him with a cold smile.

“Get on all right?” she said acidly.

“We must leave at once,” said Virgil. “Go on to the Berkeley, or my rooms, or somewhere. We can’t stay here. She says she’s coming at once—may be here any moment.”

“Then why go?” said Sarah.

“Well, we can’t be here when she comes. You don’t want a scene, do you? Screams and yells in the hall, and all that sort of thing?” He mopped the sweat from his face. “It’s all that blinking letter you made me write,” he added savagely. “I might have known——”

“But, of course, you must see her,” said Sarah, rising. “I’ll go, if you like: but you must stay. Poor, wretched girl, you can’t——”

“Stay?” cried Virgil. “You’re mad. I don’t want to be blackmailed.”

“But you said that June——”

“It—it isn’t June,” wailed Pardoner. “I mean, it can’t be. It—it isn’t her voice. It’s an impostor—that’s the word—impostor, Sarah. Someone or other’s got hold of that blasted letter, and now they’re trying it on.”

“But it must be June,” said Sarah. “The telephone’s very deceptive. Sometimes those very soft voices——”

“I tell you it’s not,” raged Virgil. “June doesn’t drop her ‘h’s’.”

With a bright red spot upon either cheek, Miss Vulliamy preceded him to the door.

While she was getting her cloak, Pardoner gave the porter instructions too definite to be mistaken. These he reinforced with two pounds.

Then a taxi was summoned, and a moment later the two were flying up Brook Street....

Pardoner entered that cab with the determined intention of telling Miss Vulliamy the truth. He meant to humble himself. He intended to apologize for his reception of his amazing luck. He meant to ask her to do her best to love and to confess there and then that “if the Will went west to-morrow morning, I’ld beg and humbly pray you to become my wife.”

Fate ruled otherwise.

The tone in which his fiancée cut short his opening sentence with a request to be taken home, would have silenced anyone. After a second effort, which was met by the lady with a true flash of temper, Pardoner told the cabman to drive to Rutland Gate.

The journey was completed without a word.

Arrived at the house, Sarah was handed out with her head in the air. Virgil’s offer to ring or use her latchkey might not have been made. His presence was ignored utterly. My lady let herself in, and closed the door behind her exactly as if she were alone. The broad white step without, might have been empty. Then she went to her room and burst into tears.

Virgil repaired to a Club and ordered a brandy and soda. This he imbibed in the library, where no one may speak, cursing all women with a deep and bitter curse....

After a perfectly poisonous hour and a half, he went to bed.

Upon the following morning he received two several communications.

The first was from the hall-porter at Claridge’s and made his hair rise.

The second was from Sarah and desired him to meet her at noon at Lincoln’s Inn Fields.

Pardoner agreed, but went early, proposing to have Forsyth to himself for a valuable quarter of an hour. Miss Vulliamy went early also, with the same idea. They met on the doorstep and, as Forsyth was engaged, spent an awkward ten minutes in the same waiting-room....

At last they were shown into the presence.

The solicitor, who had been hoping to congratulate them as lovers, was much disappointed. Still, his hopes were not dashed, and, wisely making no attempt to thaw the atmosphere, begged to be told the nature of the trouble.

Virgil stammered the facts. He was careful to tell nothing but the truth. But for Sarah’s presence, he would have gone further, and told the whole truth ... but for Sarah’s presence ...

Forsyth heard him out gravely. Then he rang for a clerk.

“Get me on to Claridge’s,” he said.

In silence the three awaited the connection.

Presently a bell throbbed.

Forsyth picked up the receiver.

“Is that Claridge’s? Put me on to the hall-porter. ... Hullo! ... This is Forsyth and Co., solicitors. ... Yes, Mr. Forsyth.... I understand a lady calling herself ‘Miss Townshend,’ has been asking for Mr. Pardoner.... Yes? ... Sitting in the hall now, is she? Good. Tell her that he will be there to see her at three o’clock.... Right.... Good-bye.”

“But, look here,” said Virgil, “I’m not going to——”

“Yes, you are,” said Forsyth. “You’re going to be in the lounge. Two of my clerks are going to be there also. One of these is going to take your name in vain. He’s going to meet the lady and say he’s you. Of course, it may not come off, but it’s worth trying. If it does, we’ve got her cold. There’s the evidence of a spare clerk and the hall-porter, to say she took John Snooks for Virgil Pardoner. You must be there yourself, to have a look at her. If, having seen her, you’ve anything more to say, say it to the spare clerk. And to-night you must leave for Lincolnshire. The real Miss Townshend must know the facts of the case, and we obviously can’t trust the post. If all goes well, she won’t be needed, but if there’s any hitch, she’ll have to be produced.”

Pardoner broke into a sweat.

Then—

“Need she be mixed up in it? I mean ...”

The solicitor shrugged his shoulders.

“If A say’s she’s B,” he said shortly, “when she isn’t, the obvious thing to do is to produce B, isn’t it?”

“I’d better come back here at four,” said Virgil, positively. “After I’ve seen the woman.”

Forsyth shook his head.

“I’m leaving for Paris,” he said, “at two o’clock. Can’t get out of it. Back in a week, I hope. But don’t worry. When’s the wedding?” he added pleasantly.

“Twenty-fou—fifth,” said Virgil, with a sickly smile. “Soon be here now.”

Sarah moistened her lips.

“I think,” she said slowly, “I think I ought to say that I’m rather unsettled.” Her fiancé paled, and Forsyth shot her a swift glance. “I don’t say here and now that I won’t go through with it, but——”

“But you must,” cried Virgil. “You must. Why, that tiara alone——”

“—unless and until this matter is cleared right up, I’m sorry, but ...” She drew off her engagement ring and laid it upon the table. “I think perhaps, if Mr. Forsyth would put this in his safe ...”

There was a dreadful silence.

At length—

“I’m sure,” said Forsyth, turning to look at Pardoner, “we both understand. It’s very natural. The wretched business places you both in a false position.” He picked up the ring and slid it into an envelope. “I may add that I look forward confidently to restoring this pretty thing to you, directly I’m back.” He rose and walked to the door. “And now, good-bye. Don’t worry, because I’m away. My managing clerk, Maple, will be at your service.”

As in a dream, Virgil followed Miss Vulliamy down the stairs and out into the broad square. There she gave him her hand and bade him farewell.

At half-past ten the next morning Pardoner received a letter of some importance.

Private.

Dear Mr. Pardoner,

From the clerk who attended you yesterday, I understand that you are not proposing at present to leave for Lincolnshire. I write to beg you to do this without delay.

What took place at Claridge’s yesterday afternoon makes it abundantly clear that the person, who called there to meet you, is no fool. Thanks, no doubt, to the periodicals in which your photograph has recently so often figured, she is well acquainted with your looks, and from the papers, which, I understand she produced, I see no reason to disbelieve that she is, in fact, Miss Jane Townshend, late of The Rectory, Loughbridge or Roughbridge, Lincolnshire. It is, of course, a most unfortunate coincidence that there should be two ladies bearing the very same name and address, but since such a coincidence exists, it is not at all easy successfully to contend that this woman’s possession of your letter is unlawful and was never intended.

In these circumstances, you will surely appreciate the extreme desirability of your seeing the other Miss Townshend without delay, explaining to her the position, and, if possible, inducing her to come to London at once. Indeed, in my opinion, her production alone can now snuff this matter out.