ped and, calling a cab, drove to the Royal Hotel. Arriving
there, he looked at the rack, and saw two telegrams addressed to
himself, which he opened eagerly.

"By Jove, they're here!" he said to himself, and to the barman he cried,
"Brandy!"

"You'll take the same room, sir," said the barman, handing him the
drink, and wondering at his hurried manner.

"Say, George, if anyone calls for me I am not in," said he, laying
half-a-crown in close proximity to George's hand.

"I'm fly, governor," said that worthy, pocketing the half-crown.

Wyck hurried upstairs to his room. Locking the door he sat down on the
bed to think matters over. His limbs were trembling with nervous
apprehension. Every step that passed his door made him start, and
several times he had recourse to his flask to calm himself. The liquor
had the desired effect, and lighting a cigar, he smoked on in silence.
The smoke grew less, the cigar went out, but still he was gazing into
space. A step passing his door woke him from his reverie. He took
another long pull at his brandy-flask and shaking himself together
walked to the looking-glass, and addressed his own image thus:

"Now, Wyck, my boy, you'll have to get out of this, and there is only
one way of doing it, and that is to disguise yourself. Your moustache
must come off first," and he gave that handsome appendage an
affectionate farewell twist. "We must part, so here goes," and opening
his dressing-case he set to work, and five minutes later was a
clean-shaven man. Then he began to make elaborate preparations for his
character in the bush by ripping his trousers and blackening them here
and there. After a considerable amount of destruction had been done he
considered his disguise satisfactory, and prepared for bed. To guard
against over-sleeping himself he tied a string to the boots outside his
door, and fixed the other end round his wrist. Then, taking a final sip
from his flask, he jumped into bed and was soon fast asleep. He seemed
scarcely to have dropped off before he was dreaming that Morris had him
by the wrist and was sitting on his chest.

"Mercy!" he gurgled, at the same time rising in bed and wrenching his
arm free, a process which brought forth the expression of a loud oath
from outside the door.

"What's your game?" called out the owner of the voice, and Wyck woke
fully and remembered. Springing out of bed he called the boots into his
room.

"What's your game, young fellow?" repeated