“That'll do,” said his friend, after some consideration; “but mind you stick to the same name. And you'd better make up something about him—where he lives, and all that sort of thing—so that you can stand being questioned without looking more like a silly fool than you can help.”
“I'll do what I can for you,” said Mr. Stokes, “but I don't s'pose your missis'll come to me at all. She saw you plain enough.”
They walked on in silence and, still deep in thought over the matter, turned into a neighboring tavern for refreshment. Mr. Henshaw drank his with the air of a man performing a duty to his constitution; but Mr. Stokes, smacking his lips, waxed eloquent over the brew.
“I hardly know what I'm drinking,” said his friend, forlornly. “I suppose it's four-half, because that's what I asked for.”
Mr. Stokes gazed at him in deep sympathy. “It can't be so bad as that,” he said, with concern.
“You wait till you're married,” said Mr. Henshaw, brusquely. “You'd no business to ask me to go with you, and I was a good-natured fool to do it.”
“You stick to your tale and it'll be all right,” said the other. “Tell her that you spoke to me about it, and that his name is Alfred Bell—B E double L—and that he lives in—in Ireland. Here! I say!”
“Well,” said Mr. Henshaw, shaking off the hand which the other had laid on his arm.
“You—you be Alfred Bell,” said Mr. Stokes, breathlessly.
Mr. Henshaw started and eyed him nervously. His friend's eyes were bright and, he fancied, a bit wild.