The Swedish gentleman took out his pocket-book and took the photograph he had bought from it.
“There, madam,” he said, “that is the Mr. Smith.”
“Ah!” shouted the woman; “I knew it. That is my husband!”
And it was. The photographer had given the Swedish gentleman a copy of the photograph of Daniel Smith. When Mrs. Croker came to the village she had had a dozen taken to send about, in case she ever heard of any clue in distant parts. The photographer had taken more than had been ordered—she wouldn’t pay for them, and he had to keep them. He had given one to the Swedish gentleman.
That evening Mr. Saxon packed up and fled. He went away in a close carriage, and drove to a station four miles off, to elude the vigilance of Mrs. Croker.
She used to go to London about once a week regularly to look for him, and she was quite convinced that some day she would receive the hundred thousand pounds that her husband left in Australia. She was convinced that she had been hoaxed at last by receiving news of the death of the real Daniel Smith. He had died at——
* * * * *
What’s that smell of burning? It’s from the kitchen. Why, cook, what are you thinking of? You know how particular No. 7 is, and these cutlets are burned to a cinder. You—— Why, good heavens, the woman’s drunk!
CHAPTER IX.
OLD GAFFER GABBITAS.
It’s got about. I wouldn’t have had it happen for the world; but Mr. Wilkins has got to know that I write stories. He told me the other evening that he was going to buy my book, and he hoped I’d write my name in it.