proceeded to my consulting room. Opening the door, I walked in, only to come to a sudden halt before a man sitting in my own armchair. He was small and queerly built, wore a long coat that reached nearly to his heels, had gray hair, a ferociously curled moustache, and a short, closely cropped white beard. The effect, when he looked at me over the edge of the paper he was perusing, was most comical. For a moment I stood bewildered, but I was destined to be even more so when he rose and came toward me, holding out his hand, and saying:
"Bon jour, Monsieur!" Then in broken English, "Pray, do you not remember your very old friend?"
I thought and thought, but for the life of me could not recollect ever having seen his face before. I was about to speak when he stopped me, and changing his voice said in excellent English:
"No! I can see you don't." Then pulling off his wig: "Well! Do you now?"
It was Walworth!
