"Then why did you laugh just now?"
"Because if you had seen a man lie dead and had attended his funeral, even you might consider it a joke to hear he was 'alive and well.'"
"You saw him dead!"
"Yes, as dead as Julius Cæsar," morosely. "It so happened I knew him uncommonly well years ago: 'birds of a feather,' you know,"—bitterly,—"'flock together.' We flocked for a considerable time. Then I lost sight of him, and rather forgot all about him than otherwise, until I met him again in Vienna, more than two years ago. I saw him stabbed,—I had been dining with him that night,—and helped to carry him home; it seemed a slight affair, and I left him in the hands of a very skillful physician, believing him out of danger. Next morning, when I called, he was dead."
"Archie,"—in a low awe-struck whisper,—"is it all true?"
"Perfectly true."
"You could not by any possibility be mistaken?"
"Not by any."
"Then, Archie," says Lilian, solemnly, "you are a darling!"
"Am I?" grimly. "I thought I was a demon who could laugh at the demise of his best friend."