you, and of
course it must be just dampening at such a time, but, you see, I had no
option. It wasn't likely that--be cool, will you? Let that poker
rest!"

He spoke savagely, and took a revolver from a hip pocket.

"I say it wasn't likely that you would be pleased to see me, and I'm not
surprised at your crying impostor, because, as I well enough know, the
papers said I was dead, and for the past two years my beautiful little
wife has worn her widow's weeds."

Stratton made a gesture to start forward, but the man sat back in his
chair and raised the pistol.

"I'm a very good shot," he said coolly. "Be quiet and listen. I'm an
impostor, am I? I was not married to Myra Jerrold, I suppose, directly
after the old man had taken her for a continental tour with pretty,
merry little Edie Perrin. Bless her--sweet little girl! I'd rather
have had her if she had possessed Myra's money. It's all right, my dear
sir. I can give you chapter and verse, and commas and full stops, too,
if you want satisfying. But you do not; you know it's all true. Why
don't I put in my claims? Well, there is that little unpleasantness
with the police, and that is why," he continued as he toyed with the
revolver. "I object to your calling them in to interfere. No, Mr
Malcolm Stratton, I shall not let you call them in for more reasons than
one. Ah! you begin to believe me. Let me see now, can I give you a
little corroborative evidence? You don't want it, but I will. Did the
admiral ever tell you what an excellent player I was at piquet?"

Stratton started.

"Yes, I see he did. And how I used to sing `La ci darem' with Myra, and
played the accompaniment myself? Yes, he told you that, too. My dear
sir, I have a hundred little facts of this kind to tell you, including
my race after Myra's horse when it took fright and she was thrown. By
the way, has the tiny little red scar faded from her white temple yet?"

Stratton's face was ghastly now.

"I see I need say no more, sir. You are convinced Myra is my wife.
There has been no divorce, you see, so you are at my mercy."

"But she is not at yours," cried Stratton fiercely. "You go back to
your cell, sir, and she will never be polluted by the touch of such a
scoundrel again."

"Polluted? Strong language, young man, and you are losing your temper.
Once more, be cool. You see I have this, and I am not a man to be
trifled with. I do not intend to go back to my cell: I had enou