ill. So I hastened, as fast as possible--considering that my own

indigestion was acute. I delayed only to awaken Mrs. Wells, and tell her that I had received an urgent call to your home. Dear, dear! she was greatly alarmed. Indeed, she almost insisted on coming with me, knowing that you are alone. But I couldn’t permit it. She was seized with such a fit of hiccoughs and heart-burn, poor thing, that I prevailed upon her to remain warmly in bed.”

Even his capacious lungs needed refilling with air at times, so that his philippics must eventually come to a period. Rosamond had made several useless efforts to interrupt him; now she said quickly, to prevent him from launching another fleet of parentheses:

“How kind. But, as you see, I am perfectly well. It is this gentleman who requires your services.” She led the way to the big chair, where the vagabond had settled again, perhaps because he thought that a wounded man should not appear too brisk, considering the hour and place.

“The accident ...” she began.

“Accident?” Dr. Wells repeated. “Dear, dear. We have so few accidents, fortunately. Is it a fracture?”

“Accidental shooting, doctor,” the prince informed him. “The wound is in the shoulder.” He must have removed her bowknot bandage in the dining room, because it was no longer there when he slipped his coat off. Dr. Wells produced a huge pair of horn-rimmed spectacles, which he put on over his small gold-rimmed ones.

“Tst--tst--tst,” he muttered, peering, first from one side, then from the other; “dear, dear. Yes, yes. It might very well have caused your death, if it had been in some other part of the body. Yes, indeed, not so slight as it appears, Mr.--” He paused, looking from one to the other, inquiringly. Thinking his tentative query had not been heard he repeated it, loudly, “Mr. ----?”

“Er--Mr. ----” Rosamond stammered, quickly. “Dr. Wells didn’t quite catch your name.”

“My name? Er--Mills. Yes. _Mr._ Mills. With _two_ l’s,” he added; as though to prove the name his own, by showing that he could spell it; or, as inept liars always overdo matters, by adding a second fib to throw suspicion on the first. “I was passing along the road from Trenton. Some constables were out hunting a tramp who had alarmed the neighbourhood. Some one shouted ‘halt.’ I supposed it was an attempted hold-up. So I spurred on; and got a bullet in my shoulder.”

In the pleasant relief of this plausible tale, Mrs. Mearely embarked upon prevaricating ventures of her own.

“I--I had been sitting here reading, and just as I was--er--about to retire--I heard voices--and a shot. So--so--I ran out. And when I saw what had happened--er--I had Mr. Woods....”

“Mills,” he corrected her, quickly, “with two l’s.”

“Mr. Mills--with two l’s. Thank you. I had Mr. Mills brought here. Then I sent for you.”

The vagabond prince added another touch of realism to the fiction. He bowed formally, as if he had only now perceived that there was a lady present, and said:

“I shall never forget your kindness, Mrs. ----?”

“Mrs. Mearely.” She took the cue promptly and, imitating his method, painstakingly spelled the name out: “M-e-a-r-e-l-y.”

“Mrs. Mearely,” he repeated, and bowed again.

Even innocent-hearted Dr. Wells might have questioned the wherefore of this spelling bee, if he had not been wholly occupied with the contents of his bag.

“Now, if Dr. Wells will kindly patch me up so that I can set out on my way....”

“No, no! You daren’t go on now.” In spite of herself, her glance went to the verandah. Had the Secret Service come creeping up from the road again, to see that His Highness did not escape in the doctor’s trap?

“Go on? To-night?” Dr. Wells shook his head. He never approved of rapid convalescence. “Oh, dear no. I couldn’t advise it. Bed and rest, my dear sir; bed and rest, till the shock is abated. Yes.”

“My sister’s room is ready,” Mrs. Mearely urged.

“Mrs. Mearely is kindness itself.” The vagabond bowed again. “But I dare not lose the time. I am obliged to keep an appointment to-morrow. Important business.”

“At least let me dress the wound properly--if we may use your sister’s room for that purpose?”

“Certainly,” Rosamond said quickly, silencing the protest she saw coming. “You must submit Mr. Wood--er--Mills. You know the way, doctor?”

She opened the door, at the right of the music room, where the stairs began their windings to the upper stories. The patient, supported by the doctor, and still protesting about his appointment elsewhere the next morning, mounted slowly. Rosamond waited to gather up her bowl, linen and sponges; then she closed the door behind her and ran up the stairs, to render aid in the bandaging, if necessary.