John Dory took a step forward, and laid his hands upon the shoulders of the man who called himself Mr. James Fitzgerald. He looked into his face long and carefully. Then he turned away, and, gripping his wife by the arm, he passed out of the room. The door slammed behind him. The sound of heavy footsteps was heard descending to the floor below.
Violet Brown crossed the room to where Peter Ruff was still sitting with a queer look upon his face, and, gripping him by the shoulders, shook him.
“How dare you!” she exclaimed. “How dare you! Do you know that I have nearly cried my eyes out?”
Peter Ruff came back from the world into which, for the moment, his thoughts had taken him.
“Violet,” he said, “you have known me for some years. You have been my secretary for some months. If you choose still to take me for a fool, I cannot help it.”
“But,” she exclaimed, pointing to Mr. James Fitzgerald—
Peter Ruff nodded.
“I have been practising on him for some time,” he said, with an air of self-satisfaction.
“A thin, mobile face, you see, and plenty of experience in the art of making up. It is astonishing what one can do if one tries.”
Mr. James Fitzgerald picked up his hat and coat.