ou are mistaken. This gentleman is Mr. John Garwell."

"Go on with you, I know Mr. Mann too well to believe such a yarn."

"I don't care what you say, this gentleman is Mr. John Garwell, and he
is from New York City."

"Then he has been playing a part here in Trenton, where he is known as
Horace Q. Mann," said the bystander.

By this time the lady was coming to her senses. She clutched at the real
estate broker.

"Take me home!" she murmured. "Oh, this is too much!"

"Better take her home," said several.

"I don't even know where she lives," answered John Garwell, blankly.

"She lives at 19 Hallock Street," said a boy in the crowd. "I'll show
you the place, mister."

"Why not take her and the little girl home?" suggested Nat. "Perhaps you
can clear up this mystery there?"

"All right, I will," answered his employer. "Nat, call a coach. I'm
going to see this affair through. It's the oddest thing I ever had
happen to me."

The coach was called, and the lady and the girl got in, and John Garwell
and Nat followed.

"I knew you were coming home to-day from that trip to Washington," said
the lady, with a tearful look in her face, "but I never dreamed you
would act this way, Horace."

"Madam, will you answer me one question. Have you a husband who went to
Washington?"

"Oh, Horace!"

Seeing he could make no headway, Mr. Garwell became silent. Inside of
ten minutes they reached 19 Hallock Street, and the coach came to a
halt. A servant let them into the mansion. As she did this she stared at
the real estate broker and gave a low cry of surprise.

"Why, I--er--I thought Mr. Mann was in the library!" she stammered. "I
didn't know he went out to meet you, Mrs. Mann."

"Let us go to the library," said John Garwell.

The lady of the house was willing, and hurried hither, followed by her
daughter, the real estate broker, and Nat. As they entered, a gentleman
who had been seated in an arm-chair, reading a book, arose to meet them.

"Well, Clara, I'm back," he said, cheerily.

"Oh!" screamed the lady, and fainted again, and not without good reason,
for before her stood a gentleman who was almost the exact facsimile of
Mr. Garwell in face, form, and general appearance.

"Why, which one of you is my papa?" cried little Lulu.

"I'm your papa!" answered the gentleman of the house. "Why--er--who--who
is this?" he stammered, looking at John Garwell.

"Let us attend to your wife first," was the answer, and soon th