"It happens to have been given me." Slight sharpness broke the tolerance
of Smith's tone.

"I don't believe you!" exclaimed the other.

Smith's black brows drew together. "It doesn't matter whether you believe
or not," he said. "What does matter is that you should annoy us. I tell
you I'm not Michael Varcoe, and never heard the name. If you're not
satisfied, and if you don't go back to your dinner and let us finish ours
in peace, I'll appeal to the management."

"Well!" grumbled the taller of the pair. "If you're not the man I want,
you're his image--minus moustache and beard. You _must_ be Varcoe!"

"Of course he's Varcoe," insisted the other.

"Of course he's not!" said Annesley, with just the right amount of
irritation. "Our name is Smith. Nelson, do tell this--person to ask the
head-waiter who engaged the table, and not stay here making a fuss."

"Anybody can engage a table in the name of Smith!" sneered the first
speaker. "That is nothing. We go by something more convincing than a
name. There are countries where men have been arrested on less
resemblance--or put out of the way."

"Oh, Nelson, he's frightening me," faltered Annesley. "He must have lost
his senses."

"You think that, do you?" The fierce eyes fixed her with a stare. "You