impressed
because Mr. Hearty was telling them something they did not know; those
who had heard of, possibly eaten, them were equally impressed, because
he was reminding them of Regent Street and Piccadilly. As Bindle
phrased it, Mr. Hearty was "a damn good greengrocer."

Mr. Hearty was interrupted in his contemplation of the fruity
splendour of his genius by the entry of a customer, at least something
had come between him and the light of the sun.

He turned, started violently and stared. Then he blinked his eyes and
stared again. A man had entered wearing a silk-faced frock-coat of
dubious fit and doubtful age, a turn-down collar, a white tie and
trousers that concertinaed over large ill-shaped boots. On his head
was a black felt hat, semi-clerical in type, insured against any
sudden vagary of the wind by a hat-guard.

Mr. Hearty gazed at the man, his eyes dilated in astonishment. He
stared at the stranger's sunken, sallow cheeks, at his heavy
moustache, at his mutton-chop whiskers. The man was his double:
features, expression, clothes; all were the same.

"'Ullo! 'Earty! Put me down for a cokernut an' an onion."

Bindle, who had entered at that moment, dug the stranger in the ribs
from behind. He turned round upon his assailant, then Bindle saw Mr.
Hearty standing in the shadow. He looked from him to the stranger and
back again with grave intentness. Both men regarded Bindle.

"Good afternoon, Joseph," said Mr. Hearty at length in his toneless
voice, that always seemed to come from somewhere in the woolly
distance.

"Good afternoon, Joseph," said the stranger in a voice that was a very
clever imitation of that of Mr. Hearty.

Bindle fumbled in the breast-pocket of his tunic and produced a box of
matches. Going up to Mr. Hearty he struck a match. Mr. Hearty started
back as if doubtful of his intentions. Bindle proceeded to examine Mr.
Hearty's features by the flickering light of the match, then turning
to the stranger, he went through the same performance with him.
Finally pushing his cap back he scratched his head in perplexity.

"Well, I'm damned!" he ejaculated. "Two 'Earty's."

"I want a cauliflower, please." It was the stranger who spoke.

Bindle once more proceeded to regard the stranger critically.

"I s'pose you're what they call an alibi," he remarked.

The stranger had no time to reply, as at that moment another man
entered. In garb and appearance he was a replica of the first. Mr.
Hearty look