"Parties mentioned left in second division for Southampton and South Coast Resorts. Destination not known."
It was incomprehensible, but he had expected it. If Mr. Scarsdale had remained at Basingstoke he would certainly have telegraphed them from there at their first stop, Salisbury. Evidently he, too, had been carried away on the train; but where? It was some relief to know that his wife was not wholly alone, but he did not at all like the idea of her going off into space with another man, and the fact that he had done the same thing himself was no consolation. Then his mind reverted to Mrs. Scarsdale, who still wept on the tomb of the crusader. What in thunder was he going to do with her? To get her back to her aunt in London at that time of night was out of the question; but where else could he take her?
This point, however, was settled at once, and in an unexpected manner, by the lady herself. Drying her eyes, she remarked suddenly: "I'm a little fool!"
"Not at all," he replied; "your emotion is quite natural under the circumstances."
"But crying won't get us out of this awful predicament."
"Unfortunately no, or we should have arrived at a solution long ago."
"That," remarked the lady, "is merely another way of making a statement which you just now disputed. I am a little fool, and I mean to dry my eyes and attend strictly to business. Tell me exactly what this message implies."
"It means," said the Consul, "that it is impossible for you to rejoin your husband to-night."
Her lip quivered dangerously; but she controlled herself sufficiently to exclaim: "But what are we to do?"
"Well," he replied, "I should advise remaining here. There is a good hotel."
"But we can't. Don't you see I must not remain—with you?" She spoke the last words with an effort.
"Yes," he rejoined. "It is awkward; but you can't spend the night in the streets; you must have somewhere to sleep."
"Let us go back to Basingstoke, then."
"I can't see that that would help matters," he said gloomily; "we would have to spend the night there just the same. Besides, I think it is going to rain." They were standing outside the church by this time. "No," he continued, "our best course, our only course, in fact, is to stay here to-night, return to Basingstoke to-morrow morning, and wait for them there. You may be sure they are having quite as bad a time as we are. If I only knew some one here——"
"Bravo!" she interrupted, clapping her hands, "I believe you have solved the problem. Look: do you see that carriage over there? What coat of arms has it? Quick! your eyes are better than mine."
In the gathering twilight he saw driving leisurely by, with coachman and footman on the box, a handsome barouche, on the panels of which a coat of arms was emblazoned.
"Well," he said, gazing hard at it, "there is a helmet with a plume, balanced on a stick of peppermint candy——"
"Yes, yes!" she cried, "the crest. Go on!"
"Down on the ground-storey," he continued, "there is a pink shield divided in quarters, with the same helmet in the north-east division, and a lot of silver ticket-punchers in the one below it."
"Spurs," she interjected.
"Well, perhaps they are," he admitted. "Then there are a couple of two-tailed blue lions swimming in a crimson lake——"
"The Melton arms!" she cried. "I looked them up in 'Burke's Peerage' when that old catawampus refused to come to our wedding. We will spend to-night with Lady Diana!"
"But I thought——" began the Consul, when his companion interrupted him, exclaiming:
"Chase that carriage as hard as you know how, and bring it here!"
Allingford felt that this was a time for action and not for speech. The days of his collegiate triumphs, when he had put his best foot foremost on the cinder-track, rose to his mind, and he fled across the green and into the gathering gloom, which had now swallowed up her ladyship's chariot, with a swiftness that caused his companion to murmur: "Well, he can sprint!"
Presently the equipage was seen returning with the heated and triumphant Consul inside. It drew up before her, and the footman alighted and approached questioningly.
"Is this Lady Melton's carriage?" she asked.
"Yes, madam."
"Then you may drive this gentleman and me to Melton Court."
"But, madam——"
"I am Mrs. Scarsdale, Lady Diana's great-niece," she said quietly. The footman touched his hat.
"Was her ladyship expecting you? We were sent to meet this next train, but——"
"No, we are here unexpectedly ourselves; but I dare say there will be room for all, as the carriage holds four."
"There will only be Lord Cowbray, madam, and his lordship may not arrive till the nine-thirty. If you would not mind driving to the station?"
"It is just what we wish," she replied, and calmly stepped into the carriage and seated herself by the Consul's side, who was so amazed at the turn affairs had taken that he remained speechless.
"Shall I see to your luggage, madam?" inquired the footman as they drew up opposite the waiting-room door.
"No," she replied, stepping out on the platform. "We will attend to it ourselves; it will only be necessary to take up our hand-bags for to-night."
Accompanied by the Consul she went in search of their belongings, and at her suggestion he took a Gladstone belonging to the absent Scarsdale, and a dressing-case which she designated as her own property.
"I was anxious to have a word alone with you," she said as they emerged once more on the platform, "and we can't talk on personal matters during the drive to the Court. You see my position is a little peculiar."
"Excuse me for asking the question," he replied, "but are your relations with your husband's great-aunt quite cordial?"
"On the contrary, they are quite the reverse. She detests all Americans, and was very much put out at poor Harold for marrying me. Her refusal to be present at our wedding was almost an insult," she returned.
"That doesn't seem to promise a pleasant reception at Melton Court," he said.
"Far from it; but any port is acceptable in a storm, and she can hardly refuse us shelter. After all I've done nothing to be ashamed of in marrying my husband or being carried off with you."
"Oh, I'll trust you to hold your own with any dowager in the United Kingdom; but where do I come in?"
"You are my Consul, and under the circumstances my national protector; I can't do without you."
"I am not at all sure that her ladyship will see it in that light; but, as you say, it is better than nothing, and our position can't be worse than it is at present."
"Then it is agreed we stand by each other through thick and thin?"
"Exactly," he replied, and shook her extended hand. At this moment the train came in, and they returned to the carriage.
Lord Cowbray did not put in an appearance, and they were soon under way for Melton Court, which was some miles distant from the town. By the time they entered the grounds it was quite dark, and they could only see that the park was extensive, and that the Court seemed large and gloomy and might have dated from the Elizabethan period.
On entering the central hall they at once saw evidences of a large house-party, whose presence did not tend to put them more at their ease, and Mrs. Scarsdale lost no time in sending a message to Lady Melton, to the effect that her great-niece had arrived unexpectedly and would much appreciate a few words with her in private.
They were shown into a little reception-room, and the footman returned shortly to say that her ladyship would be with them soon. After what seemed an endless time, but was in reality barely fifteen minutes, their hostess entered. She was a fine-looking woman of sixty or over, with a stern, hard face, and a set expression about her thin lips, that boded little good to offenders, whatever their age or sex. She looked her guests over through her gold eye-glasses, and, after waiting a moment for them to speak, said coldly:
"I think there is some mistake. I was told that my niece wished to see me."
"I said your great-niece," returned Mrs. Scarsdale.
"Oh, my great-niece. Well? I do not recognise you."
"It would be strange if you did, Lady Melton," returned the bride, "as you've never seen me. I am the wife of your great-nephew, Harold Stanley Malcolm St. Hubart Scarsdale."
"I do not see your husband present," said her ladyship, directing an icy glare at the unfortunate Consul.
"No," replied her niece, "I've lost him."
"Lost him!"
"Yes, at Basingstoke. He went to speak to a lady in another part of the train. I could make it clearer to you, I think, by saying that she was Sir Peter Steele's youngest daughter."
"I never thought of knowing the Steeles when I was in London," commented her hostess, "but St. Hubart was always liberal in his tastes." A remark which caused the Consul to flush with pent-up wrath.
"Oh, he didn't know her," interjected Mabel, hastening to correct the unfortunate turn which the conversation had taken. "She was this gentleman's wife."
Her ladyship bowed very, very slightly in the Consul's direction, to indicate that his affairs, matrimonial or otherwise, could have for her no possible interest.
"And that is the last we have heard of them," continued the bride, "except for a telegram from the station-master at Basingstoke, which says they went to Southampton——"
"Do I understand you to say," broke in their hostess, betraying the first sign of interest she had so far evinced, "that my nephew has eloped with——?"
"No, no!" cried Mrs. Scarsdale, "you do not in the least comprehend the true state of affairs," and she poured forth a voluble if disconnected account of their adventures.
"Pardon me," exclaimed the old lady when she had finished, "but what is all this rigmarole? A most surprising affair, I must say, and quite worthy of your nationality. I was averse to my nephew's marrying you from the first; but I hardly expected to be justified on his wedding day."
"In that case," said Mrs. Scarsdale, "the sooner we leave your house the better."
"You will do nothing of the sort," replied her great-aunt. "Your coming to me is the only wise thing you have done. Of course you will remain here till your husband can be found. As for this person——" indicating Allingford.
"This gentleman," said his partner in misfortune, coming to his rescue, "is Mr. Robert Allingford, United States Consul at Christchurch. As my husband had gone off with his wife, I thought the least I could do was to take him with me."
"I can hardly see the necessity of that course," commented her hostess.
"Now that I have seen Mrs. Scarsdale in safe hands, I could not think of trespassing longer upon your hospitality," put in the Consul; but his companion intervened.
"I am not going to be deserted twice in a day!" she cried. "If you go, I go with you!"
"About that," said her ladyship frigidly, "there can be no question," and she rang the bell.
"You will conduct this lady and this gentleman," she continued to the footman who answered her summons, "to the green room and the tower room respectively." Then, turning to her unwilling guests, she added: "As my dinner-table is fully arranged for this evening, and my guests are now awaiting me, you will pardon it if I have your dinner served in my private sitting-room. We will discuss your affairs at length to-morrow morning; but now I must bid you good-night," and with an inclination of her head she dismissed them from her presence.
CHAPTER V
IN WHICH A TRUNK IS SENT TO MELTON COURT
Scarcely had the sun risen the next morning when the Consul, after a sleepless night, stole downstairs and found his way out upon the terrace, for a quiet stroll and a breath of fresh, cool air. Moreover, he was in need of an uninterrupted hour in which to arrange his plans in such a manner as would most surely tend to effect the double reunion he so earnestly desired.
It seemed well-nigh impossible, in the small space of country which had probably been traversed by all parties, that they could lose each other for more than a few hours. To make the situation more clear to those who have never had the misfortune to suffer from the intricacies of English railway travel, the following diagram is appended. The triangle is isosceles, the sides being thirty-five miles long, the base twenty.
He reviewed his own adventures of yesterday afternoon. He had acted on what seemed to be the only sensible and reasonable plan to pursue; namely, to leave the train at its first stop, and return as soon as possible to the point of divergence. It seemed fair to assume that Mr. Scarsdale and Mrs. Allingford had done the same thing, and, such being the case, it was easy to imagine what their course of action had been. A glance at the time-table told him that the first point at which they could leave their division of the train had been Southampton; from which place they could, almost immediately, catch an express back to the junction they had left, arriving there shortly after seven on the past evening.
His own course and that of Mrs. Scarsdale seemed clear; it was simply a return to Basingstoke immediately after breakfast, and rejoin their friends, who had been spending the night at that place.
It was possible that they had lost the returning express and remained in Southampton; but if they acted in a rational manner, they must eventually return to the junction. But supposing Mrs. Allingford and Mr. Scarsdale had not done the obvious thing; supposing that chance had intervened and upset their plans, as in his own case? He suddenly found himself face to face with the startling fact that not only were he and Mrs. Scarsdale not at Salisbury or Basingstoke, but that they were at present at the one place where his wife and Mrs. Scarsdale's husband would never think of looking for them—Melton Court.
Allingford jammed his hat hard on the back of his head, and set off at a brisk pace to Salisbury and the nearest telegraph station; arriving at his destination shortly before seven, to find that he had a good half-hour to wait before the operators arrived. The office was opened at last, however, and he lost no time in telegraphing to Basingstoke for information, and in a little while received an answer from the station-master at that point which cheered him up considerably, though it was not quite as explicit as he could have wished. It read as follows:
"Scarsdale telegraphed last evening from Southampton, saying he had left train there with Mrs. Allingford and was returning at once to Basingstoke."
The Consul was pleased to find that his conjectures had been correct. He felt that a great weight had been lifted from his mind. Their missing partners had undoubtedly spent the night at Basingstoke and would soon consult the station-master at that point, who would doubtless show them the messages he had received. Allingford looked out a good train, telegraphed the hour of their arrival, and then, as his reception of the night before had not inclined him to trespass on Lady Melton's grudging hospitality more than was absolutely necessary, he had a leisurely breakfast at the hotel, and, engaging a fly, drove back to the Court, reaching there about half-past nine.
Mrs. Scarsdale had also passed a disturbed night, but, unlike her companion in misfortune, she did not venture out at unearthly hours in the morning. She was up, however, and saw him depart, which was in some ways a comfort, since it assured her that he was losing no time in continuing their quest.
At eight a maid arrived with warm water and a message from her ladyship that she wished Mrs. Scarsdale to breakfast with her in private at nine o'clock, and that she would be obliged if her great-niece would keep her room till that time. The bride was considerably piqued by this message and the distrust it implied, but felt it would be wise to accede to the request, and sent word accordingly.
As she entered Lady Melton's boudoir an hour later, her hostess rose to receive her, kissing her coldly on the forehead, and saying:
"You will pardon my requesting you to keep your room; but your presence is not as yet known to my guests, and your appearance among them immediately after your marriage, without your husband, might cause unpleasant speculation and comment. Do you agree with me?"
"Quite," replied Mrs. Scarsdale. She had misjudged Lady Melton, she thought; but she disliked her nevertheless, and wished to be very guarded.
"Now," said that personage, "I want to hear the whole affair. No, I do not want you to tell it," as her guest opened her mouth to speak; "not in your own way, I mean. You would probably wander from the point, and my time is of importance. I will ask you questions, and you will be kind enough to answer them, as plainly and shortly as possible."
Mrs. Scarsdale bowed; she was so angry at the cool insolence that this statement implied that she did not feel she could trust herself to speak.
"Now we will begin," said her ladyship, as she proceeded to demolish a boiled egg. "What is your Christian name?"
"Mabel."
"Very well. Then I shall call you Mabel in future; it is ridiculous to address you as Mrs. Scarsdale."
"I really don't see——" began that lady.
"Excuse me," interrupted her questioner, "I will make the comments when necessary. When were you married?"
"Yesterday afternoon at two-thirty o'clock."
"Where did you and your husband intend to pass last night?"
"At Exeter."
"Are you sure?"
"I ought to be. I bought the tickets."
"You bought the tickets! Is that customary in your country?"
"I am not here to discuss the customs of my country, Lady Melton. I bought the tickets because I chose to do so, and considered myself better fitted to arrange the trip than my husband."
"Really! I suppose that is the reason you selected the most roundabout way to reach Exeter. Your husband could have told you that you should have taken another railway, the Great Western."
"My husband," said Mrs. Scarsdale stiffly, "did not know our destination."
"What!"
"I say that my husband did not know our destination."
Her ladyship surveyed her for a moment in shocked and silent disapproval, and then remarked:
"I think I understood you to say that you travelled together as far as Basingstoke?"
"Yes, and there St. Hubart met a friend."
"This consular person?"
"Mr. Allingford? Yes. He was also married yesterday, and came to our carriage to congratulate me."
"And my nephew went to speak to Mrs. Allingford."
"Exactly. And the first thing we knew the train was moving."
"Go on."
"That is just what we did, though Mr. Allingford tried to leave the carriage and return to his wife."
"It would have been better had he never left her."
"But I restrained him."
"How did you restrain him?"
"By his coat-tails."
"Excuse me. Do I understand you to say that you forcibly detained him?"
"I'm sorry if you are shocked; it was all I could catch hold of."
"I shall reserve my criticism of these very astonishing performances, Mabel; but permit me to say that you have much to learn concerning the manners and customs of English society."
"Then," said Mrs. Scarsdale, ignoring this last remark, "we came to Salisbury."
"And telegraphed to Basingstoke for information."
"Exactly. But they could tell us nothing; so when I saw your carriage——"
"How did you know it was mine?"
"I looked out your coat of arms in 'Burke.'"
Her ladyship smiled grimly. Perhaps something might be made of this fair barbarian—in time, a great deal of time; but still this knowledge of the peerage sounded hopeful, and it was with a little less severity in her voice that she demanded:
"And what do you mean to do now?"
"Go back to Basingstoke this morning."
"Alone?"
"No, with Mr. Allingford."
"Do you expect to find your husband there?"
"I should think he would naturally return as soon as possible to where he lost me."
"I don't know," said her ladyship. "Was Mrs. Allingford pretty?"
"If you are going to adopt that tack, Lady Melton, the sooner we part the better," said her visitor angrily.
"We do not 'adopt tacks' in England," returned her ladyship calmly; "and as I consider myself responsible for your actions while you are under my roof, I shall not allow you to go to Basingstoke, or anywhere else, with a person who, whatever his official position, is totally unknown to me."
"You don't mean to keep me here against my will!"
"I mean to send you to your relations, wherever they are, under the charge of my butler—a most respectable married man—provided the journey can be accomplished between now and nightfall."
"Well, it can't," replied her grand-niece triumphantly. "Aunt Eliza left for Paris this morning, and all my other relations are in Chicago."
Lady Melton was, however, a woman of decision, and not to be easily baffled.
"Then I will send you to your mother-in-law, Lady Scarsdale; I suppose she has returned to 'The Towers'?"
"I believe so. But I do not intend to go there without my husband; it would be ignominious."
"Perhaps you can suggest a better plan," said her ladyship coldly.
"Well, if you refuse to let me go to Basingstoke——" began the bride.
"I do. Proceed."
"Then Mr. Allingford might go for me, and tell St. Hubart where I am. I know he is waiting for me there, but he would never think of my being here——Excuse me, I mean——" she stammered, blushing, for she saw she had made a slip.
"We will not discuss your meaning," said her hostess, "but your plan seems feasible and proper. You may receive the consular person in my private sitting-room and arrange matters at once."
Her niece turned to go, but she stopped her, saying:
"One word more. I do not think it necessary for your friend Mr. Allingford to return with my nephew. Pray make this clear to him."
After having been dismissed from her hostess' presence, Mrs. Scarsdale lost no time in sending for the Consul, who had just returned, and proceeded to work off on that unfortunate gentleman the rage engendered by her recent interview.
"I'm inclined to think," he said when she had finished, "that in this instance the catawampus is right. There is no use of your gallivanting over the country after your husband; he ought to come to you. I'll run down to Basingstoke at once, send him back, and with Mrs. Allingford go on my way rejoicing. There is no need of my returning, and I guess her ladyship won't cry her eyes out if I don't."
"You haven't yet told me the result of your excursion this morning," she said, hoping to divert the conversation from so obvious a truth.
"This," he replied, holding up the telegram he had just received from the station-master at Basingstoke.
After reading the message, Mrs. Scarsdale was most anxious that he should lose no time in starting, and with mutual expressions of friendship, and boundless thanks from the deserted bride, they parted: he for the junction, she for a further interview with her great-aunt.
When her ladyship learned that Scarsdale had left Southampton for Basingstoke, and was doubtless now in that place, she advised his wife to remain in seclusion till the members of the house-party, which luckily was breaking up that day, had departed; and retired herself to prepare a few remarks with which to welcome her errant great-nephew. Later in the day, however, she so far relented towards his wife as to suggest that she take a stroll on the terrace while the few remaining guests were indulging in a post-prandial siesta.
It was from this coign of vantage that she saw approaching the worn and drooping figure of Mr. Allingford. She rushed to meet him, and demanded, without even giving him time to get his breath:
"Where is my husband?"
"I don't know," he gasped.
"Or your wife?"
"Or my wife."
"Aren't they in Basingstoke?"
"No, and haven't been there. I've turned that confounded town inside out, and catechised every one about the station, from the divisional superintendent to the charwoman. They did not come last night, nor arrive this morning. Since leaving Southampton, if they did leave it, they have entirely disappeared."
"Why do you say, 'if they did leave' Southampton?"
"Because no one saw them go. I have learned by endless telegraphing that they alighted at that point, told a porter they had been carried past their destination, and wished to return at once to Basingstoke. He indicated their train, they disappeared in the crowd—and that's all."
"Haven't they telegraphed again to Basingstoke?"
"Not since last night."
"Or to Salisbury?"
"No. I inquired on the chance, but no message had come."
"It is horrible!" she exclaimed. "I'm the most miserable woman on earth!"
"Don't cry," he begged despairingly.
"No," she said, "I won't. Do you think it would be any good to telegraph to Aunt Eliza and Lady Scarsdale?"
"I have already done so. Your Aunt Eliza has left for Paris. She wouldn't have done that if she had heard about this; and it gave Lady Scarsdale a fit—the telegram I mean—but she didn't know anything."
"Is that all?"
"Not quite. I have telegraphed to my Vice-Consul at Christchurch, asking for news of Scarsdale, and telling him to forward anything that had come for me. They might have written there, you know, to save talk in the office; but I haven't as yet had a reply."
"I must consult Lady Melton; the situation is too dreadful for words. Suppose they have had an accident; suppose——" she faltered.
"Nonsense!" he rejoined, "bad news always travels quickly; don't make yourself uneasy on that score. They've got side-tracked in some out-of-the-way place, just as we have. I'll go to Southampton to-morrow and work up the trail. Now you run off and consult the catawampus."
When her ladyship had heard the whole story, she summed up as follows:
"As your friend has seen fit to return, you may tell him his chamber will be again made ready for to-night, and you will both dine in my sitting-room as before. To-morrow I shall send you home to Lady Scarsdale."
"But——"
"There is nothing more to be said on the subject. I have made up my mind." And having pronounced sentence, she left her distracted great-niece to her own reflections.
It was a very doleful couple who sat down to dinner that evening in Lady Melton's private room.
"It is ridiculous!" said Mrs. Scarsdale. "We are being treated like naughty children. I feel as if I were about to be whipped and put to bed. Sent home with the butler, indeed! I'd just like to see her ladyship try to do it!"
"How are you going to prevent her?" asked the Consul.
"I'm not a child, and I won't be treated as one! If I am to be sent home in disgrace, you will have to come with me."
"Well, I like that! You seem to forget I've lost my wife. My first duty is to find her."
"Your first duty is to me. If you go to Southampton, I go with you."
"I'm afraid there'll be an awful row with her ladyship."
"Let there be, then; I don't care!"
"I really think," he expostulated, "that you had better stay here one day more. I'll get you a reprieve from the custody of the butler, and have a try at Southampton myself. There is a cross-line from here, and it won't take any time to run over. I've tracked horse-thieves in Kentucky when I was sheriff, and I guess I can find a bridegroom where it's all open country as it is round here."
At this moment a servant knocked and entered, saying:
"Please, madam, her ladyship's orders is that you are to be ready at seven to-morrow morning, to start with Mr. Bright, the butler, for 'The Towers.'"
"I——!" began Mrs. Scarsdale, rising in wrath and indignation; but before she could further complicate matters by a direct refusal, the footman had turned to Allingford, and, handing him a telegram, had left the room. Forgetful of all else, she rushed to the Consul's side as with nervous fingers he tore it open. What joyful news might it not contain! One look at his face, however, blasted all her hopes. Horror, consternation, and surprise were depicted thereon as he read the despatch. Something dreadful must have happened.
"Tell me the worst!" she cried. "Is it Harold?"
"It is the last straw," he replied.
"Is he dead?"
"I wish he was."
"You wish my husband dead?"
"Oh, confound your husband!"
"Mr. Allingford——!"
"No, no, I don't mean that. I'm not responsible for what I'm saying," he replied, and groaned aloud. But his companion was not to be put off.
"Is that telegram from my husband?"
"No."
"From my mother-in-law?"
"No."
"From Aunt Eliza?"
"No."
"From the station-master at Basingstoke?"
"Guess again."
"From your Vice-Consul?"
"Yes."
"Has he heard anything of our lost ones?"
"It has nothing to do with that."
"Then what is the matter? What does it all mean?"
"It means," replied the Consul, "that I've got to leave here by the first train."
"Explain yourself," she demanded.
"I'll try," he replied, mopping his brow. "You see, an American applied to me to lend him some money, a few days ago, and put up as collateral an elephant."
"Harold told me the story. I thought it very amusing."
"You won't when I've finished. The elephant arrived day before yesterday at Southampton, and, as I had informed the steamship company that I was the temporary owner of the beast, they forwarded it to my consulate at Christchurch."
"How does that affect us?"
"Affect us!" he cried. "Do you remember what I telegraphed my Vice-Consul?"
"Yes, almost word for word," she answered. "You asked for news of the fugitives, and, on the chance of their writing to Christchurch, told him to forward here anything that might have come for you."
"Exactly," shrieked the Consul; "and the blamed fool has forwarded the elephant!"
"What! Here? To Melton Court?" she exclaimed, aghast.
"That is what I said. The beast is on the way now, and ought to be here bright and early to-morrow morning."
"How awful! What will you do?"
"Get out," he replied laconically.
"And leave me?"
"I don't know about you, but I mean to leave the elephant. I don't wish to start a bigger circus than I have on hand already."
"But would it be quite right to our hostess?" expostulated her niece.
"If you've any conscientious scruples on the subject, you can stay and tend the beast. I'm leaving by the first train."
"But it's your elephant."
"Of course it is, and I've a right to do what I choose with it. I mean to leave it to Lady Melton, in payment for my board and lodging. After the way she's treated me I don't want to owe her anything."
"Really, Mr. Allingford——" began his companion.
"Now look here," he retorted; "would you want an elephant tagging you round on your honeymoon?"
"Well, no, I don't think I should," she replied, laughing.
"Besides," he continued, "how am I to prosecute a search for our missing halves with a Noah's ark in tow?"
"That does put the matter in a different light," she admitted.
"You bet it does!" he replied. "As for her ladyship, she can do what she pleases with my slight token of regard. Give it to the poor of the parish, if she likes; I don't ask her to keep it."
"But what is to become of me?"
"Oh, you are to be sent home with the butler early to-morrow morning."
"I won't go!"
"Then join me."
"But supposing we don't find my husband to-morrow——"
"Then I'll take you down to my consulate at Christchurch for the night. I have plenty of friends there with whom you can stay."
"That settles it," she replied.
So it was that they stole away from the Court in the grey dawn of the next morning, footed it to Salisbury, recovered their baggage, and boarded the early train for Southampton. As it moved out of the station they passed a long line of box cars on a siding, from one of which the angry scream of an elephant resounded.
"Just in time," said the Consul with a sigh of relief. "I wish her ladyship joy of my little remembrance."
CHAPTER VI
IN WHICH MR. SCARSDALE CHANGES HIS NAME
Mr. Scarsdale entered Mrs. Allingford's compartment with so great an impetus, when he swung himself into her carriage at Basingstoke, that he completely lost his balance, and shot past her on all fours, to land in a heap on the floor. A second later the guard banged the door, and the train was off.
"What does this mean?" exclaimed the Consul's wife, "and where is my husband?"
"Excuse me," gasped Scarsdale, picking himself up from the floor, "but I couldn't leave you."
"So it appears," she replied coldly. "But you have not answered my question, and——" as the train began to move rapidly, "it is not possible that we are getting under way!"
"Yes," he said gloomily, "we are off to Southampton."
"Answer me instantly: where is my husband?" she demanded.
"Gone to Exeter, I suppose, with my wife."
"What do you mean?"
"That he was carried off in the first division of the train, which left five minutes ago."
"But I thought we stopped ten minutes."
"So you did; we stopped only five. When I left you just now, I saw that the forward half of this train had disappeared, and the guard told me it had gone to Exeter, and that this portion was just leaving for Southampton. I thought it better to stay with you than to let you go by yourself; so as the carriage was moving, and it was impossible to get you out, I jumped in."
"Thank you," she said simply; and for a moment there was silence between them while the train rattled over the points, and, reaching the outskirts of the town, began to increase its speed. The little Englishwoman did not, however, emulate her fair American partner in distress, who was at this moment indulging in hysterics in the other train; she had been too well trained to betray her feelings before a man whom she knew but slightly, even over the loss of a husband; so, after remaining quiet for a little, she controlled herself sufficiently to say, very calmly:
"I do not see that we can either of us blame ourselves for what has happened; we must try and make the best of it, and rejoin your wife and my husband as soon as possible."
Plucky little woman! thought Scarsdale to himself; to Mrs. Allingford he said:
"I am glad you see things in so sensible a light. You must let me help you in every way that is in my power."
"You say our first stop is Southampton?" she asked.
"Yes, we reach there in less than an hour. They slip some carriages at Winchester, but the train doesn't stop," he replied.
"Then I think we should alight at Southampton," she said, "and return at once to Basingstoke."
"That would certainly be our best course. When you lose a man in a crowd, it is much better to wait at the point where you lost him till he finds you than to hunt for him yourself, as you will both miss each other."
"Then you propose to let them find us."
"That is my idea. Of course I'll telegraph to the station-master at Basingstoke that we will return there, so that if they wire for information concerning us he can give it them."
"Where do you think they have gone?"
"If we either of us knew our destination it would be far easier," he said, laughing. "I hope this will be a lesson to my wife."
"But surely the train must stop before it reaches Exeter."
"Undoubtedly; but as I have no time-table, I can't say where. Perhaps your husband has one in his overcoat. If you will permit me," and he proceeded to examine the garment in question.
No time-table was forthcoming, however, and they were forced to resign themselves to waiting till they reached Southampton.
Mrs. Allingford bore up bravely, and even tried to make conversation; but it proved to be a dreary ride, and when they drew up at their destination they were both exceedingly thankful.
"Is there a train back to Basingstoke soon?" asked Scarsdale of the first railway porter he saw.
"Yes, sir, over there on the left. Express leaves in three or four minutes," replied that individual, as he hurried away with somebody else's baggage.
"I'll take you over," said Scarsdale.
"No," replied his companion, "I can find it. You attend to the telegram and my luggage."
He dashed off accordingly, and when he returned they both entered the train on the left.
"I've sent the telegram," he said, "and I have also discovered your destination."
"How?" she inquired.
"By the labels on the luggage. It was marked for Bournemouth, and a jolly hard time I had to induce them to take it out of the van and send it back with us."
"It seems to me," she said after a little, "that we've been waiting here more than four minutes. I trust we are not in the wrong train. One has just gone out."
"Hi! guard!" called Scarsdale from the window. "Is this the express for Basingstoke?"
"No, sir," replied the official. "It was the train beyond you, which has just left. Sorry if you've made a mistake, sir."
"Confound it, yes!" cried Scarsdale. "Where does this train go?"
"Stopping train for Winchester."
"Can we go on to Basingstoke?"
"Not by this train, sir."
"But from Winchester?"
"There is sure to be a train this evening, sir."
"It has been a chapter of accidents," he said, explaining it to Mrs. Allingford, "but we had better go to Winchester, I think; it is on the way anyhow."
"Yes," she assented, "and then get on to Basingstoke as fast as we can, and not be discouraged."
"Quite right," he replied, and entered into a description of Southampton docks and the varied cargoes that were received there, in the hope of distracting her mind.
"Oh, look!" she cried, as, once more started on their travels, they came in sight of the shipping, "see what they are loading on that truck! I do believe it is an elephant!"
After what seemed an interminable journey, they at length arrived at Winchester, and as soon as Scarsdale had seen Mrs. Allingford established in the ladies' waiting-room, he hastened to ascertain their chances of getting to Basingstoke that night. On his return he wore a very long face, which his companion was not slow to interpret.
"Are there no trains?" she exclaimed, in evident dismay.
"There is one," he replied, "but we should not reach our destination till very late, almost midnight in fact, and we cannot tell that we should find your husband even then. I think our best course would be to remain here."
"Oh, but that is impossible."
"No, there is a very fair hotel."
"I didn't mean that. But can't you see the position in which I am placed?"
He did see, and he knew that what he proposed seemed to her almost an impossibility; but as they were now situated he considered that circumstances altered cases.
"I am sure, Mrs. Allingford," he said, "that your good sense, which has carried you through so much this afternoon, will show you the necessity of acting as I have suggested. You must not forget that you are now a married woman, and can do things which before were not permissible."
"Still," she contended, "to go to a public hotel with a gentleman who is a comparative stranger, and pass the night there, seems to me not the thing at all; and if we were recognised by anybody——" She paused, hardly knowing how to complete her sentence.
"Then go alone. There are other hotels; I will put up somewhere else," he replied.
"No, no, I couldn't be left alone; I've never been alone before in my life. That would be worse than all else. You see, if you were only related to me it would be so different."
"I am quite willing to pass myself off as any relation you please, for the sake of appearances."
"But that would be deceitful."
"I think the exigencies of the case will excuse that; besides, it is my own affair, not yours. Will you have me as a brother for one night only?" he asked, laughing.
"But I have no brother," she replied.
"Then as your husband's brother," he suggested; "that would be better still, as he is an American and not known here."
"Do you really think it best?"
"To save you annoyance, I think it is a pardonable deception. What is his name?"
"Richard. But I don't know much about him."
"Then we will consider that that is settled," he said cheerfully, and, without giving her time to argue the matter, summoned a fly, which presently deposited them bag and baggage at the hotel door. To make assurance doubly sure, he hastened to sign their names in the visitors' book:
"Mrs. Robert Allingford, Christchurch, England.
"Mr. Richard Allingford, U.S.A."
"Can you give my sister and me good rooms for to-night?" he asked the landlady.
"Yes, sir, two nice rooms just opposite each other."
He said that that would do very well, and they were soon installed.
Once in her apartment, Mrs. Allingford indulged in a good cry, while Scarsdale strolled out before dinner to have a smoke and think it over. He did not see much further use in telegraphing just at that moment. Later it would, perhaps, be well to send a message to Basingstoke, saying that they were detained at Winchester and would come on next morning; for he had quickly learned that Mrs. Scarsdale and Mr. Allingford would be able to leave the train at Salisbury, and justly surmised that they had done so.
Presently, having finished his cigar, he returned to the hotel to find Mrs. Allingford ready for dinner, and much refreshed by her tears and subsequent ablutions. They neither of them ate much, and after the fish they gave up any attempt to make conversation as worse than useless, and finished the repast in silence.
"I'm afraid," she said, as she folded her napkin, "that you've found me very poor company."
"I'm nothing to boast of myself," he replied.
"I hope they are not as miserable as we are," she added, as they rose to leave the table. "I haven't been able to eat a thing."
Scarsdale did not reply; he had a gloomy suspicion that his wife was making a very good meal somewhere. Not that he doubted her love; but he did not believe her devotion included loss of appetite.
"Don't you think they are miserable?" she queried, uneasy at his silence.
"Not so miserable as we are," he said. "They are both Americans, you see, and Americans don't take things seriously as a rule."
"What do you suppose they are doing?" was her next question.
"Seated swinging their feet over the edge of Salisbury platform, finishing my five-pound box of American candy," he said.
She tried to be amused, and even forced a little laugh; but it was a dismal failure, and, realising it, she at once excused herself and retired to her room for the night, leaving Scarsdale to pass the evening as best he could. He approved of her circumspection, but it was beastly dull, and, as he sat smoking in the winter garden which the hotel boasted, he felt that he should soon become insufferably bored.
He presently, therefore, overcame his natural reserve sufficiently to respond to the advances of the only person in the room who seemed inclined to be sociable. The stranger was a florid, shaggy-bearded man of a distinctively American type, a person Scarsdale would naturally have avoided under ordinary circumstances; but to-night he felt the need of human society, no matter whose, and in a few moments they had drifted into conversation. At first the subjects under discussion were harmless enough, relating mainly to Winchester and neighbouring points of interest, concerning which Scarsdale was forced to confess himself ignorant, as it was his first visit to the place. Before long, however, they began to touch on more dangerous ground, and he saw that, even with a casual acquaintance of this sort, he must be guarded if he was to remain consistent in his role of brother to the deserted bride.
"Were you ever in America?" was the first question which startled him.
He replied in the affirmative, as he could honestly do, having been taken by his father to Canada when but a lad. But the stranger was not satisfied, and began, after the manner of his nation, a series of leading questions, which kept Scarsdale busy in trying to assimilate with some regard to truth the character he had chosen. It was at this moment that a waiter came to him and asked in a perfectly audible voice if he was Mr. Richard Allingford. Scarsdale was forced to admit the fact, and to reply to a message sent, as the waiter took unnecessary pains to explain, "By your sister, sir."
"Excuse me," interjected his companion, "but may I ask if your sister's name is Mrs. Robert Allingford?"
The Englishman would have given worlds to deny the fact, but in the presence of the waiter, who still lingered, and in the face of the evidence in the visitors' book, only one course was open to him, and he replied reluctantly in the affirmative.
"Wife of the United States Consul at Christchurch?"
"Yes," said Scarsdale.
Now he could once more tell the truth, he felt happier; but he had a premonition that all was not well, and heartily wished he had never encouraged this American, who might know more than was convenient.
"Why, Dick!" said that personage, leaning across the little table that separated them, and grasping both his hands—"Why, Dick! Don't you know me?"
If a thunderbolt had shattered the floor at the Englishman's feet he could not have been more dumfounded. The one seemingly impossible thing had come to pass. In all this great world, with every chance against it, fate had ordained that the little provincial city in which he had planned to play, for one night only, another man's part, should also contain one of that man's friends, and they two had met. He was so staggered, as the possibilities contingent on this mischance crowded through his brain, that he could only stammer out:
"You have the advantage of me."
"Well, I don't much wonder," continued his new-found friend. "If I have changed as much in fifteen years as you have, it isn't strange you didn't recognise me. Lord! I'd never have known you if you hadn't told me who you were."
"You must do me as great a favour," said Scarsdale, regaining a little of his self-composure. If so long a time had elapsed since their last meeting, he felt that things were not so bad after all, and that he could reasonably hope to bluff it out.
"Well," said the other, "the boys used to call me Faro Charlie; now you remember."
The Englishman tried to look as if he did, and the American proceeded to further elucidate matters by saying:
"Why, surely you ain't forgotten me as was your pal out to Red Dog, the time you was prospecting for copper and struck gold?"
"No, no," said Scarsdale. "Of course I remember you now." He couldn't be supposed to have forgotten such an event, he felt; but the whole affair was most unfortunate.
"I guess you've settled down and become pious, from the looks of you," continued Faro Charlie; "but you'll have a drink for old times' sake just the same."
"No, thanks, you must excuse me," he replied, feeling that he must drop this unwelcome friend as soon as possible. But the friend had no intention of being dropped, and contented himself by saying:
"Rats!" and ordering two whiskies.
"Why, I've known the day," he continued, "when Slippery Dick—we used to call you Slippery Dick, you remember, 'cause you could cheat worse at poker than any man in the camp." Scarsdale writhed. "Well, as I was saying, you'd have shot a man then who refused to drink with you."
The Englishman sat aghast. Little had he thought he was impersonating a card-sharper and a wholesale murderer. The whisky came and he drank it, feeling that he needed a bracer.
"Now," said Faro Charlie, "I want to hear all about what you've been doing, first and last. Tending copper-mines, I heered, out to Michigan."
This, the Englishman felt, was going too far. It was bad enough to have to impersonate such a fellow as "Slippery Dick," but to endow him with a fictitious history that was at all comparable with Faro Charlie's account of his earlier years required too great an effort of imagination. And the fact that a quiet little man, who was sitting near by, edged up his chair and seemed deeply interested in the conversation, did not tend to put him more at his ease. No wonder, he thought, the Consul did not talk much about his brother. He therefore hastened to change the subject.
"Have you seen much of the Indians lately?" he ventured; it seemed such a safe topic.
"Thinking of that little squaw you was so chummy with down to Injun Reservation?" queried his friend, punching him jovially in the ribs. "You knew, didn't you, that they'd had her up for horse-stealing to Fort Smith? Reckon as they'd a hung her if she hadn't been a woman. She was a limb! Guess you had your hands full when you tackled her."
Scarsdale decided his choice of a subject had not been fortunate, and begged Faro Charlie to have some more whisky.
"Sure," replied that individual. "Drink with you all night."
"I'm afraid you can't do that," replied Scarsdale, hastening to rid himself of his unwelcome friend. "I have some important business to attend to this evening."
"I wish you weren't in such a rush. Come back and we'll paint the town, eh?"
Scarsdale thought it extremely unlikely, and shaking hands fled to the street with a sigh of relief; for he had had a very bad quarter of an hour. What cursed luck that he should have run across this American horror! He must avoid him at all costs to-morrow morning.
In his hurry he had not noticed that the quiet little man had left the winter garden with him. His one thought was to get away. He determined to send that telegram to Basingstoke at once, and go to bed before any one else recognised him: one of Slippery Dick's friends was enough.
But unkind fate had not yet done with him, and a new and more terrible surprise was in store for the unfortunate bridegroom. He had scarcely gone a dozen yards from the hotel entrance, when a voice said just beside him:
"Excuse me, Mr. Richard Allingford, but may I have a few words with you?"
Scarsdale turned, and finding himself face to face with the quiet little man, who had seemed so interested in his conversation of a few moments ago, said:
"I seem to be in great demand to-night. Why do you wish to see me? I don't know you."
"No," said the man who stood beside him. "No, you do not know me, Mr. Richard Allingford; but you will."
He was a quiet, unpretending little man; but there was something about his dress and bearing, and the snap with which he shut his jaw at the end of a sentence, an air of decision, in short, which caused the Englishman to feel that he would do well to conciliate this stranger, whoever he might be, so he said shortly:
"What do you want with me? Speak quickly; I'm in a hurry."
"I couldn't help overhearing some of your conversation just now at the hotel, and so I took the liberty of following you to ask you a question."
"Yes?" said Scarsdale interrogatively.
"If I mistake not you are the brother of the United States Consul at Christchurch, and came over to his wedding."
"Yes," he admitted; for he did not see how he could well deny to one man what he had just confessed to another.
"You have been in England about ten days, I think?"
"As long as that, certainly."
"May I ask what ship you came on?"
"By what right do you ask me these questions?"
"You will see presently."
"But suppose I refuse to answer them?"
The unknown shrugged his shoulders, and said quietly:
"Now wasn't it the Paris?"
"Yes," said Scarsdale, who remembered with joy having seen that fact chronicled in a London paper.
"I suppose you have never been in Winchester before?"
"Never in my life."
"Not last week?"
"Look here!" said Scarsdale angrily, "what the devil are you driving at?"
"It is a pity you should have such a good memory for past and not for recent events," said the quiet little man, "a great pity."
"I tell you I have never been here!"
"Didn't dine at the Lion's Head last Wednesday, for instance?"
"No, I did not, and I've had enough of this insolence!"
"So have I," said the little man, blowing a little whistle. "So have I, and therefore I arrest you, Richard Allingford, in the Queen's name."
CHAPTER VII
IN WHICH MR. SCARSDALE REAPS ANOTHER'S WHIRLWIND
Scarsdale was absolutely staggered by the word "arrest." Arrest! What nonsense! Who was this man who talked of arresting him, Harold Scarsdale, peaceably engaged in trying to find his wife and proceed on his honeymoon? The first sensations of surprise and incredulity were quickly followed, however, by a realisation of the horrible situation in which his own stupidity had placed him. In the eyes of the law he was not Harold Scarsdale, but Richard Allingford, and he shuddered to think with what crime he might be charged; for, from what he had learned in the last half-hour, he could not doubt that he was posing as one of the most abandoned characters that had ever visited the town of Winchester.
A person who consorted with horse-thieves, cheated at cards, and thought nothing of shooting friends who were not thirsty, would surely be satisfied with no ordinary crime. Of what was he accused? He hardly dared to ask. And how was he to get out of this dreadful dilemma? His reflections, however, were cut short by the arrival of a burly policeman, in answer to his captor's whistle. The little man at once addressed the newcomer, quite ignoring Scarsdale.
"Here's your man Allingford; not a doubt of it," he said.
"Got your warrant?" inquired the policeman, laying a detaining hand on the prisoner's shoulder.
"Here it is," replied the first speaker, producing a paper, which the officer glanced at and returned, saying at the same time to Scarsdale:
"Now, then, come along o' me, and don't make no resistance if you knows what's good for you."
"I do not intend to offer any resistance," replied that gentleman, and turning to the little man he asked: "By what right do you arrest me, and on what charge?"
"I'm Private Detective Smithers," replied his captor, "and this," again producing the paper he had already shown to the policeman, "is my warrant. You know the charge well enough."
"I'm entirely ignorant of it!" cried Scarsdale hotly.
"Of course," said the detective. "They always are," and he winked at the officer.
"I tell you I don't know anything about it!" reiterated the unfortunate bridegroom.
"I must caution you," remarked the policeman, "that anything you says may be used against you as evidence."
"I demand to know why I am arrested. I have a right to do so."
"Tell him, Bill," said the detective, "and stop his row."
The officer, thus admonished, nodded his head, and replied shortly:
"Two charges: 'sault and battery on the landlord of the Lion's Head, and disturbing the peace on last Wednesday night."
"I deny the charge!" cried Scarsdale.
"Of course you do," replied the policeman; "I suppose you would. Now you've had your say, are you coming along peaceable, or are you not?"
"Certainly I am," replied the prisoner, and they started up the street, followed by a small crowd, which had already collected.
"I must warn you," continued Scarsdale, when they were fairly under way, "that you are making a mistake. I am not the man you take me for."
"I suppose you'll deny your name is Richard Allingford next," said the detective, laughing.
"I do deny it."
"Well I'm blessed!" remarked his captor.
The policeman simply said: "Come on, that's too thin!" and jerked him roughly by the arm.
Scarsdale quickened his pace, saying angrily:
"If you'd only give a man a chance to explain!"
"You'll have chance enough, when you come up to-morrow, to explain to the court," replied the officer, "and a pretty bill of damages into the bargain."
"Oh, if it's only a fine," remarked the prisoner, feeling much relieved, "I'll pay it and welcome, rather than have a row."
"Maybe you won't have the option," replied one of his captors; while the other added cheerfully: "What you needs is thirty days, and I 'opes you'll get it."
At the police court Scarsdale did not help his case by insisting on giving his right name, and denying all knowledge of the charge. His statements were entered against him, he was relieved of his watch, purse, and jewellery, and introduced to the cold comforts of the lock-up.
On being asked if he wished to communicate with any one, he replied that the next morning would be quite time enough; for he knew that Mrs. Allingford could give him little help in his present predicament, and he did not wish to disturb her night's rest to no purpose.
It can be well imagined that the accommodations of an English provincial prison are not luxurious; but the room was clean, and fortune favoured him in that he had only two companions, both of whom were stupid drunk, and went to sleep very peaceably on the floor.
Scarsdale improvised a bed on a settee, and, using his coat as a pillow, passed a fairly comfortable night. Luckily he was of a somewhat phlegmatic temperament, and withal very tired after the day's exertions; so, in spite of the misfortunes which were crowding about him, he was able to resign himself to the inevitable, and eventually to drop off to sleep.
Early next morning, however, he arranged to have a note delivered to Mrs. Allingford at the hotel, in which he informed that lady of his unfortunate predicament, begging her not to distress herself on his account; and assuring her that in all probability it was merely a matter of a trifling fine, and that he should be at liberty to rejoin her within a few hours.
He felt very little of what he wrote; but as long as there was a chance of things coming out right, he wished to spare her all possible worry.
His ready money procured him a better breakfast than he could have hoped for, and by nine o'clock, when the court opened, he was refreshed and ready for whatever might befall. His two companions in misfortune preceded him for trial, but their cases were soon disposed of, and Harold Scarsdale, alias Richard Allingford, was put into the dock.
The court-room consisted of a plainly furnished apartment, containing a raised platform at one end, on which were placed the desk and armchair of the police magistrate, while in front were several rows of benches for the accommodation of the public: but as the cases were of no general interest, Scarsdale was relieved to see that the attendance was meagre. Mrs. Allingford was present, however, looking very white and distressed, but managing to muster up a smile to greet him as he entered.
The proceedings were short and to the point. The police constable, on being called and given the oath, kissed the book and deposed that at about a quarter to nine on the previous evening, while on his accustomed beat, he had been summoned by Private Detective Smithers to aid in arresting the prisoner, who had professed ignorance of the charge, the truth of which he afterwards denied, and who persisted in asserting that he was not Richard Allingford.
Private Detective Smithers now took the stand and stated the case from his point of view; which was, in short, that the conversation he had overheard at the hotel between the prisoner and another person here present, and the statement which the prisoner made to him personally, proved that he was without doubt the Richard Allingford mentioned in the indictment. In conclusion he begged that the person styling himself Faro Charlie should be summoned to corroborate his testimony. Faro Charlie was accordingly called and placed in the dock, and after the usual preliminaries the magistrate examined him as follows:
"What is your name?"
"Faro Charlie."
"Any other name?"
"Smith."
"Very well, Charles Smith; are you a citizen of the United States?"
"I be."
"Of what occupation?"
"Miner."
"Do you recognise the prisoner as the person whom you met at the George last evening?"
"I do."
"Can you swear that he is Richard Allingford?"
"No."
Scarsdale's heart leaped at that "no"; salvation was at hand after all.
The magistrate continued:
"Do you believe this person to be Richard Allingford?"
"Yes, on the whole I think I do." The prisoner's heart sank. "But," continued the witness, "I can't be sure. Fifteen years is a long time. I wouldn't have known him if he hadn't owned up to his name. He might be playing me for a sucker."
"In other words, you think the prisoner to be Richard Allingford, but are unwilling to swear to his identity?"
"That's the stuff," replied Faro Charlie. "I swored as a man was my uncle, three years ago at 'Frisco, and he put a bullet into me next day, 'cause I lost him the case. After which I ain't swearing against a pal," and he left the stand.
The case now proceeded, and the detective related how on Wednesday, the 16th of October, the prisoner, Richard Allingford, in company with other lawless characters, had dined at the Lion's Head, and, during a dispute with the landlord concerning the quality of the wine, had thrown that personage out of his own second-storey window; telling his wife, who protested against such actions, to put her husband in the bill, which they left without settling. Then they proceeded to paint the town of Winchester a lurid crimson, breaking windows, beating a policeman who interfered, and raiding a night coffee-stall in the process.
This recital of wrong and outrage being finished, the magistrate addressed the prisoner as follows:
"What is your name?"
"Harold Stanley Malcolm St. Hubart Scarsdale."
Some one in the audience murmured, "O Lor'!"
"You refuse to admit that your name is Richard Allingford?" continued the justice.
"I have just given you my name."
"Are you an American?"