Malcolm Stratton started back with his eyes wild and his face ghastly, just as there was the faint sound of steps on the stone stairs, and directly after someone gave a long-continued double knock on the outer door.

“Company, eh?” said the man, rising. “Get rid of him. I’ve a lot to say. I’ll go in here.”

He went straight to the doorway on the right of the fireplace.

“No, no,” cried Stratton harshly; “that is a false door.”

“False door?” said the man; “is this?”

He laid his hand upon the other on the left of the fireplace, and opened it.

“All right. Bath room. I’ll go in here.”

As the man shut himself in Stratton reeled as if he would have fallen, but a second rat-tat upon the little brass knocker brought him to himself, and, after a glance at the closet door, he opened that of the entry, and then the outer door, to admit a good looking, fair-haired young fellow of about five-and-twenty, most scrupulously dressed, a creamy rose in his buttonhole, and a look of vexation in his merry face as he stood looking at his white kid gloves.

“I say, old chap,” he cried, “I shall kill your housekeeper. She must have black-leaded that knocker. Morning. How are you. Pretty well ready?”

“Ready?” said Stratton hurriedly. “No, not yet. I’m sure I—”

“Why, hullo, old chap; what’s the matter?”

“Matter? Nothing, nothing.”

“Well, you look precious seedy. White about the gills. Why, hang it, Malcolm, don’t take it like that. Fancy you being nervous. What about? Packed up, I see.”

“Yes—yes.”

“Wish it was my turn,” continued the newcomer. “Might as well have been two couples: Mr and Mrs Malcolm Stratton; Mr and Mrs Percy Guest. Why, I say, old chap, you are ill.”

“No, no,” cried Stratton hurriedly; and a sudden thought struck him.

Catching up the telegram from the table, he handed it to his friend.

“Hullo! Nothing serious? Poof! What a molehill mountain. You shouldn’t let a thing like this agitate your noble nerves. Bless the dear little woman. I’ll run on to Common Garden, Central Avenue, as we say in some suckles, bully the beggar for not sending it, start him, and be back for you in a jiffy.”

“No, no,” cried Stratton excitedly, “don’t trust them. Get the bouquet, and take it yourself. Don’t come back. I’ll meet you at the church.”

“All right, old chap. Your slave obeys. Only, I say, I would have a duet—S. and B.—before I started. Screw up, and don’t come with a face like that.”

The speaker went to the door, opened it, and looking round laughingly: “Precious dull; I’ll tell ’em to turn on the sun,” he said, and hurried out.

As the outer door closed Stratton darted to the inner and shut it, while, as he turned, his unwelcome visitor stepped out of the bath room—evidently formerly a passage leading into the next chamber—and returned to his chair, “Best man—bouquets—carriages waiting—church—wedding breakfast,” he said laughingly. “By Jove! I could drink a tumbler of champagne.”

By this time Stratton had grown firmer, and, pointing to the door, he cried:

“Look here, sir; I’ll have no more of this. You are an impostor. I don’t know where you obtained your information, but if you have come to levy blackmail on the strength of such a mad tale, you have failed; so go.”

“To my wife?”

“To the police-station if you dare to threaten me. Look here: James Barron, otherwise James Dale, died two years ago.”

“Then he has come to life again, that’s all,” said the man coolly. “Now, look here, you; I’ve not come to quarrel. I call on you, and of course it must be just dampening at such a time, but, you see, I had no option. It wasn’t likely that—be cool, will you? Let that poker rest!”

He spoke savagely, and took a revolver from a hip pocket.

“I say it wasn’t likely that you would be pleased to see me, and I’m not surprised at your crying impostor, because, as I well enough know, the papers said I was dead, and for the past two years my beautiful little wife has worn her widow’s weeds.”

Stratton made a gesture to start forward, but the man sat back in his chair and raised the pistol.

“I’m a very good shot,” he said coolly. “Be quiet and listen. I’m an impostor, am I? I was not married to Myra Jerrold, I suppose, directly after the old man had taken her for a continental tour with pretty, merry little Edie Perrin. Bless her—sweet little girl! I’d rather have had her if she had possessed Myra’s money. It’s all right, my dear sir. I can give you chapter and verse, and commas and full stops, too, if you want satisfying. But you do not; you know it’s all true. Why don’t I put in my claims? Well, there is that little unpleasantness with the police, and that is why,” he continued as he toyed with the revolver. “I object to your calling them in to interfere. No, Mr Malcolm Stratton, I shall not let you call them in for more reasons than one. Ah! you begin to believe me. Let me see now, can I give you a little corroborative evidence? You don’t want it, but I will. Did the admiral ever tell you what an excellent player I was at piquet?”

Stratton started.

“Yes, I see he did. And how I used to sing ‘La ci darem’ with Myra, and played the accompaniment myself? Yes, he told you that, too. My dear sir, I have a hundred little facts of this kind to tell you, including my race after Myra’s horse when it took fright and she was thrown. By the way, has the tiny little red scar faded from her white temple yet?”

Stratton’s face was ghastly now.

“I see I need say no more, sir. You are convinced Myra is my wife. There has been no divorce, you see, so you are at my mercy.”

“But she is not at yours,” cried Stratton fiercely. “You go back to your cell, sir, and she will never be polluted by the touch of such a scoundrel again.”

“Polluted? Strong language, young man, and you are losing your temper. Once more, be cool. You see I have this, and I am not a man to be trifled with. I do not intend to go back to my cell: I had enough of that yonder, but mean to take my ease for the future. These chambers are secluded; a noise here is not likely to be heard, and I should proceed to extremities if you forced me.”

“You dare to threaten me?”

“Yes, I dare to threaten you, my dear sir. But keep cool, I tell you. I didn’t come here to quarrel, but to do a little business. Did you expect me? I see you have the money ready.”

He pointed to the notes—notes to defray a blissful honeymoon trip—and Stratton had hard work to suppress a groan.

“There, I’m very sorry for you, my dear sir,” continued the scoundrel, “and I want to be friendly, both to you and poor little Myra—good little soul! She thought me dead; you thought me dead; and I dare say you love each other like pigeons. Next thing, I admired her, but she never cared a sou for me. Well, suppose I say that I’ll be dead to oblige you both. What do you say to that?”

Malcolm was silent.

“I never wanted the poor little lass. Frankly, I wanted her money, and the admiral’s too—hang the old rascal, he won about fifty pounds of me. But to continue. Now, Mr Malcolm Stratton, time is flying, and the lady will soon be at the church, where you must be first. I tell you that I will consent to keep under the tombstone where the law and society have placed me, for a handsome consideration. What do you propose?”

“To hand you over to the police,” said Stratton firmly, but with despair in his tone.

“No, you do not. You propose to give me the money on the table there, to sign an agreement to pay me three hundred a year as long as I keep dead, and then to go and wed your pretty widow, and be off to the continent or elsewhere.”

Bigamy—blackmailed by a scoundrel who would make his life a hell—through constant threats to claim his wife—a score of such thoughts flashed through Stratton’s brain as he stood there before the cool, calculating villain watching him so keenly. Money was no object to him. Mr Brettison would let him have any amount, but it was madness to think of such a course. There was only one other—to free the innocent, pure woman he idolised from the persecution of such a wretch, and the law would enable him to do that.

Malcolm Stratton’s mind was made up, and he stood there gazing full in his visitor’s eyes.

“Well,” said the man coolly, “time is on the wing, as I said before. How much is there under that letter weight?”

“One hundred and fifty pounds,” said Stratton quietly.

“Write me a cheque for three hundred and fifty pounds then, and the bargain is closed.”

“Not for a penny,” said Stratton quietly.

“You will. The lady is waiting.”

“So are the police.”

“What!” cried the man, rising slowly and with a menacing look in his countenance. “No fooling, sir. You see this, and you know I shall not be trifled with. Once more let me remind you that a noise here would hardly be heard outside. But you are not serious. The prize for you is too great. Police? How could you marry the lady then? Do you think my proud, prudish little Myra would take you, knowing me to be alive? Stop, will you?” he cried with a savage growl like that of a wild beast, “or, by all that’s holy—Here, what are you going to do, fool?”

“Summon the police,” cried Stratton, who was half-way to the door, as the man sprang at him with the activity of a panther.

For the next minute there was a desperate struggle, as the men wrestled here and there, both moved by one object—the possession of the deadly weapon.

Then one arm was freed, there was the sharp report of a pistol, and a puff of ill smelling smoke partially hid the struggling pair.

Another shot with the smoke more dense.

A heavy fall.

Then silence—deathlike and strange.

Outside, on the staircase a floor higher, a door was opened; there were steps on the stone landing, and a voice shouted down the well: “Anything the matter?” After a moment another voice was heard: “Nonsense—nothing. Someone banged his oak.” There was the sound of people going back into the room above, and in the silence which followed, broken only by the faintly heard strain of some street music at a distance, the door below, on the first floor landing, was opened a little way, the fingers of a hand appearing round the edge, and a portion of a man’s head came slowly out, as if its owner was listening.

The door was closed once more as softly as it was opened, and the sun, which had been hidden all the morning by leaden clouds, sent a bright sheaf of golden rays through the dust-incrusted staircase window, straight on to the drab-painted outer door, with the occupant’s name thereon in black letters:

Mr Malcolm Stratton.