It was about half-past nine that the Consul meditatively mopped his head, as he reached the top step of the hotel porch. He was heated by his exertions, but exceedingly complacent. He had interviewed sixteen porters, five guards, the station agent, three char-women, four policemen, and the barmaid--the latter twice, once on business and once on pleasure; and he had discovered from the thirtieth individual, and after twenty-nine failures and a drink, the simple fact that those he sought had gone to Winchester. He did not think he could have faced Mrs.

Scarsdale if he had failed. As it was, he returned triumphant, and, as he approached their private parlour, he mentally pictured in advance the scene which would await him: her radiant smile, her voluble expression of thanks, their joyful journey to Winchester; in short, success. He pushed open the door, and this is what really happened: an angry woman with a flushed, tear-stained face rushed across the room, shoved a newspaper at him, and cried:

"You brute!"

The Consul dropped into the nearest chair. He looked at the infuriated Mrs. Scarsdale, he looked at the crumpled newspaper, he heard the last echo of that opprobrious monosyllable, and he said:

"Well I'm jiggered!"

Then, recollecting his news, he continued:

"Oh, I forgot. I've found out where they have gone; it's Winchester."

"Is that all you've got to tell me?" she cried. "All, in the face of this?" And she again shoved the newspaper towards him. He looked to where her finger pointed. He was hopelessly bewildered, and wondered if her native humour had inopportunely failed her and she had gone mad.

"Read!" she commanded.

His wandering eye followed the direction of her finger, and he read slowly, with open mouth, a short account of the arrest and partial trial at Winchester of one Richard Allingford, who claimed to be Harold Scarsdale.

"Tell me," she thundered, "is that my husband?"

"Well," he said, slowly, "I guess it is," and he re-read the last sentence of the paragraph in the newspaper:

"_The prisoner insisted that he was Harold Scarsdale, and could prove his ident.i.ty. He was accompanied by a woman who claimed to be Mrs. Robert Allingford, wife of the well-known United States Consul at Christchurch. The prisoner was remanded till this morning._"

"Have you a brother?"

"Yes."

"Has he ever been arrested?"

"Arrested! Why, I've spent most of my time for the past twenty years in bailing him out."

"But why has my husband taken his name?" she demanded.

"That is a matter you'll have to settle with Scarsdale; and if you look as you do now, I'm real sorry for him," he replied.

"You don't care a bit!" she cried.

"Oh, yes I do; but I want you to see it from its humorous side," he answered.

At this remark Mrs. Scarsdale burst into a flood of tears, and Allingford gave a sigh of relief, and, strolling to the window, was soon lost in admiration of the view.

Suddenly a voice said, in the sweetness of its accustomed tones:

"Why were you so pleased when I began to cry?" And Mrs. Scarsdale, calm and composed, stood beside him.

"Hard storm is a good thing to clear the atmosphere after a thunder-shower," replied the Consul laconically.

"I was real mad with you," she admitted.

"Great Scott! don't you suppose I knew that?" he cried.

They both laughed, and peace was restored.

"Do you really think it is poor Harold?"

"I suppose he doesn't get called St. Hubart when he's in 'quod'?"

"Be sensible and answer my question. Is it my husband or your brother who is on trial at Winchester?"

"I don't know," he replied.

"What are you going to do about it?" she asked.

"Go and see."

"When is the next train?"

The Consul pulled out his watch.

"In twelve and a half minutes," he said. "I've paid the hotel bill.

Here, hold on! You turn to the left for the elevator!" But Mrs.

Scarsdale was half-way downstairs on her way to the station.

An hour later, as the Consul and his fair companion emerged at the station at Winchester, the first person they saw was Carrington.

"We've been found at last!" cried the Consul, advancing towards Jack with outstretched hand, exclaiming: "Well, Columbus Carrington, if ever I get lost again, I'll telegraph you first thing."

In a minute questions and answers were flying between them. Where had they been? Where had they come from? Why was Carrington here? Why had Scarsdale been arrested?

Jack bore up manfully, answering as best he could.

"Perhaps you can tell me the whereabouts of my wife and this lady's husband?" said the Consul.

"They have been staying here," he replied, "but they have gone."

"Gone!" cried Allingford in blank amazement. "Gone! Where? When?"

"Why, to Salisbury," replied Jack. "I sent them over there early this morning."

"You did, did you?" spluttered the Consul. "What right had you to send them anywhere?"

"Why, to join you at Lady Diana's."

"Join us!" screamed Allingford. "Why, we left Melton Court at half-past four this morning, and have been on the road ever since trying to join them."

"It seems to be a typical example of cross-purposes," replied Carrington.

"It's pure cussedness!" said the Consul.