e know that he had not changed his
name? Had she not changed hers?

The Baron's account of Harrisson was that he made his acquaintance
about three years since at San Francisco, where he had come to choose
gold-mining plant to work a property he had purchased at Klondyke.
Rosalind found it a little difficult to understand the account of how
the acquaintance began, from want of knowledge of mining machinery. But
the gist of it was that the Baron, at that time a partner in a firm
that constructed stamping-mills, was explaining the mechanism of one to
Harrisson, who was standing close to a small vertical pugmill, or mixer
of some sort, just at the moment the driving-engine had stopped and the
fly-wheel had nearly slowed down. He went carelessly too near the still
revolving machinery, and his coat-flap was caught and wound into the
helix of the pugmill. "It would have crowned me badly," said the Baron.
But he remained unground, for Harrisson, who was standing close to the
moribund fly-wheel, suddenly flung himself on it, and with incredible
strength actually cut short the rotation before the Baron could
be entangled in a remorseless residuum of crushing power, which, for
all it looked so gentle, would have made short work of a horse's
thigh-bone. The Baron's coat was spoiled, though he was intact. But
Harrisson's right arm had done more than a human arm's fair share of
work, and had to rest and be nursed. They had become intimate friends,
and the Baron had gone constantly to inquire after the swelled arm. It
took time to become quite strong again, he said. It was a fine strong
arm, and burned all over with gunpowder, "what you call daddooed in
English."

"Did it get quite well?"

"Ferry nearly. There was a little blaze in the choint here"--the Baron
touched his thumb--"where the bane remained--a roomadic bane. He
burgessed a gopper ring for it. It did him no goot." Luckily Rosalind
had discarded the magic ring long since, or it might have come into
court awkwardly.

If she still entertained any doubts about the identity of her husband
and Harrisson, the Baron's next words removed them. They came in answer
to an expression of wonder of hers that he should so readily accept her
husband's word for his identity in the face of the evidence of his own
senses. "I really think," she had said, "that if I were in your place
I should think he was telling fibs." This was nettle-grasping.

"Ach, ach! No--no--no!" shouted the Baron,