ggested a cab,
but he replied that he would rather walk.

I met McQuae in the evening at the St. James's Theatre. It was a first
night, and he was taking sketches for _The Graphic_. The moment he saw
me he made his way across to me.

"The very man I wanted to see," he said. "Did I take Hallyard with me in
the cart to Richmond this afternoon?"

"You did," I replied.

"So Leena says," he answered, greatly bewildered, "but I'll swear he
wasn't there when we got to the Queen's Hotel."

"It's all right," I said, "you dropped him at Putney."

"Dropped him at Putney!" he repeated. "I've no recollection of doing
so."

"He has," I answered. "You ask him about it. He's full of it."

Everybody said he never would get married; that it was absurd to suppose
he ever would remember the day, the church, and the girl, all in one
morning; that if he did get as far as the altar he would forget what he
had come for, and would give the bride away to his own best man. Hallyard
had an idea that he was already married, but that the fact had slipped
his memory. I myself felt sure that if he did marry he would forget all
about it the next day.

But everybody was wrong. By some miraculous means the ceremony got
itself accomplished, so that if Hallyard's idea be correct (as to which
there is every possibility), there will be trouble. As for my own fears,
I dismissed them the moment I saw the lady. She was a charming, cheerful
little woman, but did not look the type that would let him forget all
about it.

I had not seen him since his marriage, which had happened in the spring.
Working my way back from Scotland by easy stages, I stopped for a few
days at Scarboro'. After _table d'hote_ I put on my mackintosh, and went
out for a walk. It was raining hard, but after a month in Scotland one
does not notice English weather, and I wanted some air. Struggling along
the dark beach with my head against the wind, I stumbled over a crouching
figure, seeking to shelter itself a little from the storm under the lee
of the Spa wall.

I expected it to swear at me, but it seemed too broken-spirited to mind
anything.

"I beg your pardon," I said. "I did not see you."

At the sound of my voice it started to its feet.

"Is that you, old man?" it cried.

"McQuae!" I exclaimed.

"By Jove!" he said, "I was never so glad to see a man in all my life
before."

And he nearly shook my hand off.

"But what in thunder!" I said, "are you