man answered testily, “but my name is James Fitzgerald, and I am an actor employed at the Shaftesbury Theatre, as I can prove with the utmost ease. I never called myself Spencer; nor, to my knowledge, was I ever called by such a name. Nor, as I remarked before, have I ever seen any one of you three people before with the exception of Miss Brown here, whom I have seen on the stage.”
John Dory grunted.
“It was Mr. Spencer Fitzgerald,” he said, “a clerk in Howell & Wilson’s bookshop, who leapt out of the window of Daisy Villa two years ago. It may be Mr. James Fitzgerald now. Gentlemen of your profession have a knack of changing their names.”
“My profession’s as good as yours, anyway!” the little man exclaimed. “We aren’t all fools in it! My friend Mr. Peter Ruff said to me that there was a young lady whom I used to know who was anxious to meet me again, and would I step around here about eight o’clock. Here I am, and all I can say is, if that’s the young lady, I never saw her before in my life.”
There was a moment’s breathless silence. Then the door was softly opened. Violet Brown went staggering back like a woman who sees a ghost. She bit her lips till the blood came. It was Peter Ruff who stood looking in upon them—Peter Ruff, carefully dressed in evening clothes, his silk hat at exactly the correct angle, his coat and white kid gloves upon his arm.
“Dear me,” he said, “you don’t seem to be getting on very well! Mr. Dory,” he added, with a note of surprise in his tone, “this is indeed an unexpected pleasure!”
The man who stood by the desk turned to him. The others were stricken dumb.
“Look here,” he said, “there’s some mistake. You told me to come here at eight o’clock to meet a young lady whom I used to know. Well, I never saw her before in my life,” he added, pointing to Maud. “There’s a man there who wants to arrest me—Lord knows what for! And here’s Miss Brown, whom I have seen at the theatre several times but who never condescended to speak to me before, telling me not to shoot! What’s it all about, Ruff? Is it a practical joke?”
Peter Ruff laid down his coat and hat, and sat upon the table with his hands in his pockets.
“Is it possible,” he said, “that I have made a mistake? Isn’t your second name Spencer?”
The man shook his head.
“My name is James Fitzgerald,” he said. “I haven’t missed a day at the Shaftesbury Theatre for three years, as you can find out by going round the corner. I never called myself Spencer, I was never clerk in a bookshop, and I never saw that lady before in my life.”
Maud came out from her place against the wall, and leaned eagerly forward. John Dory turned his head slowly towards his wife. A sickening fear had arisen in his heart—gripped him by the throat. Fooled once more, and by Peter Ruff!
“It isn’t Spencer!” Maud said huskily. “Mr. Ruff,” she added, turning to him, “you know very well that this is not the Mr. Spencer Fitzgerald whom you promised to bring here to-night—Mr. Spencer Fitzgerald to whom I was once engaged.”
Peter Ruff pointed to the figure of her husband.
“Madam,” he said, “my invitation did not include your husband.”
John Dory took a step forward, and laid his hands upon the shoulders of the man who called himself Mr. James Fitzgerald. He looked into his face long and carefully. Then he turned away, and, gripping his wife by the arm, he passed out of the room. The door slammed behind him. The sound of heavy footsteps was heard descending to the floor below.
Violet Brown crossed the room to where Peter Ruff was still sitting with a queer look upon his face, and, gripping him by the shoulders, shook him.
“How dare you!” she exclaimed. “How dare you! Do you know that I have nearly cried my eyes out?”
Peter Ruff came back from the world into which, for the moment, his thoughts had taken him.
“Violet,” he said, “you have known me for some years. You have been my secretary for some months. If you choose still to take me for a fool, I cannot help it.”
“But,” she exclaimed, pointing to Mr. James Fitzgerald—
Peter Ruff nodded.
“I have been practising on him for some time,” he said, with an air of self-satisfaction.
“A thin, mobile face, you see, and plenty of experience in the art of making up. It is astonishing what one can do if one tries.”
Mr. James Fitzgerald picked up his hat and coat.
“It was worth more than five quid,” he growled; “when I saw the handcuffs in that fellow’s hand, I felt a cold shiver go down my spine.”
Peter Ruff counted out two banknotes and passed them to his confederate.
“You have earned the money,” he said. “Go and spend it. Perhaps, Violet,” he added, turning towards her, “I have been a little inconsiderate. Come and have dinner with me, and forget it.”
She drew a little sigh.
“You are sure,” she murmured, “that you wouldn’t rather take Maud?”
THE LITTLE LADY FROM SERVIA
Westward sped the little electric brougham, driven without regard to police regulations or any rule of the road: silent and swift, wholly regardless of other vehicles—as though, indeed, its occupants were assuming to themselves the rights of Royalty. Inside, Peter Ruff, a little breathless, was leaning forward, tying his white cravat with the aid of the little polished mirror set in the middle of the dark green cushions. At his right hand was Lady Mary, watching his proceedings with an air of agonised impatience.
“Let me tell you—” she begged.
“Kindly wait till I have tied this and put my studs in,” Peter Ruff interrupted. “It is impossible for me to arrive at a ball in this condition, and I cannot give my whole attention to more than one thing at a time.”
“We shall be there in five minutes!” she exclaimed. “What is the good, unless you understand, of your coming at all?”
Peter Ruff surveyed his tie critically. Fortunately, it pleased him. He began to press the studs into their places with firm fingers. Around them surged the traffic of Piccadilly; in front, the gleaming arc of lights around Hyde Park Corner. They had several narrow escapes. Once the brougham swayed dangerously as they cut in on the wrong side of an island lamp-post. A policeman shouted after them, another held up his hand—the driver of the brougham took no notice.
“I am ready,” Peter Ruff said, quietly.
“My younger brother—Maurice,” she began, breathlessly—“you’ve never met him, I know, but you’ve heard me speak of him. He is private secretary to Sir James Wentley—”
“Minister for
