Digby's eyes fairly stuck from his head and his face was as white as the proverbial sheet.
"Not my—not Mrs. Matthews' basket!" he stammered, clutching the slip in his trembling fingers. His eyes grew blurred with amazement an instant later. He passed his hand before them and when he took it away there was a wild, half insane stare in them. He looked again at the slip and read: "Mrs. Digby Trotter, Voxburgh building."
His nerveless arm relinquished the basket to the hand of the stranger and his puzzled eyes sought the floor in a long stare, broken presently by the voice in his ear:
"Come along. Step back here with me."
Digby shook the man's hand from his arm and, as he turned to follow him, asked hoarsely:
"Where is she now?"
"Who?"
"My wife of course—Mrs. Trotter."
"Well, you're a bird!" exclaimed his guardian. "How about Mrs. Matthews?"
"Good Heavens, what have I done—I—I—look here, man. It's a mistake—"