“It's me,” said her husband.
“Yes, I see it is,” was the reply.
“It's him right enough; it's your husband,” said Mr. Stokes. “Alfred Bell has gone.”
“How dare you stand there and tell me them falsehoods!” exclaimed Mrs. Henshaw. “I wonder the ground don't open and swallow you up. It's Mr. Bell, and if he don't go away I'll call the police.”
Messrs. Henshaw and Stokes, amazed at their reception, stood blinking up at her. Then they conferred in whispers.
“If you can't tell 'em apart, how do you know this is Mr. Bell?” inquired Mr. Stokes, turning to the window again.
“How do I know?” repeated Mrs. Henshaw. “How do I know? Why, because my husband came home almost directly Mr. Bell had gone. I wonder he didn't meet him.”
“Came home?” cried Mr. Henshaw, shrilly. “Came home?”
“Yes; and don't make so much noise,” said Mrs. Henshaw, tartly; “he's asleep.”
The two gentlemen turned and gazed at each other in stupefaction. Mr. Stokes was the first to recover, and, taking his dazed friend by the arm, led him gently away. At the end of the street he took a deep breath, and, after a slight pause to collect his scattered energies, summed up the situation.