instant, ignoring the
last remark.

"Now, sir; you say you have business with me. Let me hear it, since I
must--at once."

"Ah, that's businesslike. We shall be able to deal."

"Say what you have to say."

"When you sit down."

Stratton let himself fall back into a chair.

"Now then. Quick!"

"You propose being married this morning."

"I do," said Stratton, with a sort of dread lest even then there should
be some obstacle in the way.

"Well, then, you can't; that's all."

"What!" cried Stratton fiercely. "Who says so?"

"I do. But keep cool, young man. This is business."

"Yes; I'll be cool," said Stratton, mastering himself again, and
adopting his visitor's cynical manner. "So let me ask you, sir, who you
may be, and what is your object in coming?"

The man did not answer for a moment, but let his eyes rest again upon
the notes.

"I say, who are you, sir?"

"I? Oh, nobody of any importance," said the man, with an insolent
laugh.

Stratton sprang up, and the visitor thrust his hand behind him.

"No nonsense, Mr Malcolm. I tell you this is business. Without my
consent you cannot marry Myra Barron, formerly Myra Jerrold, this
morning."

"I say, who are you, sir?" cried Stratton furiously.

"James Barron, my dear sir--the lady's husband."

"Good God!"

CHAPTER TWO.

TWO SHOTS FROM A REVOLVER.

Malcolm Stratton started back with his eyes wild and his face ghastly,
just as there was the faint sound of steps on the stone stairs, and
directly after someone gave a long-continued double knock on the outer
door.

"Company, eh?" said the man, rising. "Get rid of him. I've a lot to
say. I'll go in here."

He went straight to the doorway on the right of the fireplace.

"No, no," cried Stratton harshly; "that is a false door."

"False door?" said the man; "is this?"

He laid his hand upon the other on the left of the fireplace, and opened
it.

"All right. Bath room. I'll go in here."

As the man shut himself in Stratton reeled as if he would have fallen,
but a second _rat-tat_ upon the little brass knocker brought him to
himself, and, after a glance at the closet door, he opened that of the
entry, and then the outer door, to admit a good looking, fair-haired
young fellow of about five-and-twenty, most scrupulously dressed, a
creamy rose in his buttonhole, and a look of vexation in his merry face
as he stood looking at his white kid gloves.

"I say, old chap," he cried,