"I'll go and put it right for you," said his friend. "You stay here and
smoke your pipe."

He stepped out briskly, but his pace slackened as he drew near the
house.

"I--I--came--to see you about your husband," he faltered, as Mrs.
Simpson opened the door and stood regarding him.

"What's the matter?" she exclaimed, with a faint cry. "What's happened
to him?"

"Nothing," said Mr. Mills, hastily. "Nothing serious, that is. I just
came round to warn you so that you will be able to know it's him."

Mrs. Simpson let off a shriek that set his ears tingling. Then,
steadying herself by the wall, she tottered into the front room,
followed by the discomfited Mr. Mills, and sank into a chair.

"He's dead!" she sobbed. "He's dead!"

"He is not," said Mr. Mills.

"Is he much hurt? Is he dying?" gasped Mrs. Simpson.

"Only his hair," said Mr. Mills, clutching at the opening. "He is not
hurt at all."

Mrs. Simpson dabbed at her eyes-and sat regarding him in bewilderment.