"I didn't say you went out," replied the servant, beginning to lose his patience. "I said Mr. Kenneth Traynor went out. You are not Mr. Kenneth Traynor."
"Then who in the name of heaven am I?"
"I haven't the remotest idea," retorted the man. Condescendingly, he went on: "I admit you look a little like the master." Impatiently he added:
"You must excuse me. I want to close the door."
Instead of obeying the hint to withdraw, Kenneth strode further into the house, the protesting and indignant butler at his heels.
"You must really go," said the servant.
Kenneth turned around.
"Roberts—don't be a fool. Don't you know me? I know why you don't recognize me. You all think me dead, but I'm very much alive. I did not go down on the Abyssinia. I was picked up and taken to San Francisco and have been in a hospital there ever since. I have just come home. Where's my wife?"
The butler stared and stood motionless, as if not knowing what to make of it.
"But you came home long ago."