ce of Preston
screamed. The hands of the butler released their hold upon his throat.
As suddenly as he had thrown himself upon him he now recoiled.

"It's _'im!_" he shouted; "it's _'im!_"

"Him?" demanded Jeanne.

"_It's Mr. Blagwin!_"

Unlike Preston, Jeanne did not scream; nor did she faint. So greatly did
she desire to believe that "'im" was her husband, that he still was in
the same world with herself, that she did not ask how he had escaped
from the other world, or why, having escaped, he spent his time robbing
his own house.

Instead, much like Preston, she threw herself at him and in her young,
firm arms lifted him and held him close.

"Jimmie!" she cried, "_speak_ to me; _speak_ to me!"

The blow on the back of the head, the throttling by Preston, the
"stopping power" of the bullet, even though it passed only through his
leg, had left Jimmie somewhat confused. He knew only that it was a
dream. But wonderful as it was to dream that once more he was with
Jeanne, that she clung to him, needed and welcomed him, he could not
linger to enjoy the dream. He was dead. If not, he must escape. Honor
compelled it. He made a movement to rise, and fell back.

The voice of Preston, because he had choked his master, full of remorse,
and, because his mistress had shot him, full of reproach, rose in
dismay:

"You've 'it 'im in the leg, ma'am!"

Jimmie heard Jeanne protest hysterically:

"That's nothing, he's _alive_!" she cried. "I'd hit him again if it
would only make him _speak_!" She pressed the bearded face against her
own. "Speak to me," she whispered; "tell me you forgive me. Tell me you
love me!"

Jimmie opened his eyes and smiled at her.

"You never had to shoot me," he stammered, "to make me tell you _that_."

THE CARD-SHARP

I had looked forward to spending Christmas with some people in Suffolk,
and every one in London assured me that at their house there would be
the kind of a Christmas house party you hear about but see only in the
illustrated Christmas numbers. They promised mistletoe, snapdragon, and
Sir Roger de Coverley. On Christmas morning we would walk to church,
after luncheon we would shoot, after dinner we would eat plum pudding
floating in blazing brandy, dance with the servants, and listen to the
waits singing "God rest you, merry gentlemen, let nothing you dismay."

To a lone American bachelor stranded in London it sounded fine. And in
my gratitude I had already shipped to my