he opened the door. "It's a mistake anybody might make."

He pushed Mr. Henshaw into the street as the landlord placed a hand on
the flap of the bar, and followed him out.

"You'll have to 'ave a bad cold and talk in 'usky whispers," he said
slowly, as they walked along. "You caught a cold travelling in the train
from Ireland day before yesterday, and you made it worse going for a
ride on the outside of a 'bus with me and a couple o' ladies. See? Try
'usky whispers now."

Mr. Henshaw tried, and his friend, observing that he was taking but a
languid interest in the scheme, was loud in his praises. "I should never
'ave known you," he declared. "Why, it's wonderful! Why didn't you tell
me you could act like that?"

Mr. Henshaw remarked modestly that he had not been aware of it himself,
and, taking a more hopeful view of the situation, whispered himself into
such a state of hoarseness that another visit for refreshment became
absolutely necessary.

"Keep your 'art up and practise," said Mr. Stokes, as he shook hands
with him some time later. "And if you can manage it, get off at four
o'clock to-morrow and we'll go round to see her while she thinks you're
still at work."

[Illustration: "'And what about my voice?' he demanded."]

Mr. Henshaw complimented him upon his artfulness, and, with some
confidence in a man of such resource, walked home in a more cheerful