"He lives with us. He brought me in the train."
"Really! Well, what is his name? Charles what?"
"He is not Charles anything," said John, anxiously. "That's just it; he's only Charles."
Mr. Goodwin laid down the pen. He saw the difficulty.
"He must have another name, Tempest," he said. "Try and think."
"I have thought," said John. "Before I came to you I thought. I thought in bed last night."
"And don't you know Mitty's name either?"
"No." John's voice was almost inaudible.
"Dear me!" said Mr. Goodwin, smiling, and not realizing the gravity of the situation. "We can't put 'Mitty' on one letter, and 'Charles' on the other. That would never do, would it?"
There was a moment's silence, in which hope went straight out of John's heart. If Mr. Goodwin could not see his way out of the difficulty, who could? He turned red, and then white. His harsh-featured, little face took an ugly look of acute distress.