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Wood was scarcely seated before Mr. His curiosity, his literary instincts, had been submerged by the recurring thought of the fool he had made of himself. “I heard the other day that she’d been taken in by some cad of a fellow who was cutting a great dash in Paris, personating Meysey Hill, the great railway man. His legs were fine and strong, he told her that he had been a warrior in ancient times, to which she snorted in disgust. At length, I shall ascertain my name. Where the stuff came from was always a mystery. That might happen on her birthday—in August. “It may be more difficult than you think,” she said.

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