Mrs. Gibbs nodded.  “I should go screaming, raving mad,” she said, with conviction.

“But—­but not if ’e was alive!” said Mr. Kidd.

“I don’t know what you’re driving at,” said Mrs. Gibbs.  “Why don’t you speak out plain?  Poor Joe is drownded, you know that; you saw it all, and yet you come talking to me about dreams and things.”

Mr. Kidd bent over her and put his hand affectionately on her shoulder.  “He escaped,” he said, in a thrilling whisper.  “He’s alive and well.”

“What?” said Mrs. Gibbs, starting back.

“True as I stand ’ere,” said Mr. Kidd; “ain’t it, George?”

“Truer,” said Mr. Brown, loyally.

Mrs. Gibbs leaned back, gasping.  “Alive!” she said.  “But ’ow?  ’Ow can he be?”

“Don’t make such a noise,” said Mr. Kidd, earnestly.  “Mind, if anybody else gets to ’ear of it you’ll ’ave to give that money back.”

“I’d give more than that to get ’im back,” said Mrs. Gibbs, wildly.  “I believe you’re deceiving me.”

“True as I stand ’ere,” asseverated the other.  “He’s only a minute or two off, and if it wasn’t for you screaming I’d go out and fetch ’im in.”

“I won’t scream,” said Mrs. Gibbs, “not if I know it’s flesh and blood.  Oh, where is he?  Why don’t you bring ’im in?  Let me go to ’im.”

“All right,” said Mr. Kidd, with a satisfied smile at Mr. Brown; “all in good time.  I’ll go and fetch ’im now; but, mind, if you scream you’ll spoil everything.”

He bustled cheerfully out of the room and downstairs, and Mrs. Gibbs, motioning Mr. Brown to silence, stood by the door with parted lips, waiting.  Three or four minutes elapsed.

“’Ere they come,” said Mr. Brown, as footsteps sounded on the stairs.  “Now, no screaming, mind!”

Mrs. Gibbs drew back, and, to the gratification of all concerned, did not utter a sound as Mr. Kidd, followed by her husband, entered the room.  She stood looking expectantly towards the doorway.

“Where is he?” she gasped.

“Eh?” said Mr. Kidd, in a startled voice.  “Why here.  Don’t you know ’im?”

“It’s me, Susan,” said Mr. Gibbs, in a low voice.

“Oh, I might ’ave known it was a joke,” cried Mrs. Gibbs, in a faint voice, as she tottered to a chair.  “Oh,’ow cruel of you to tell me my pore Joe was alive!  Oh, ’ow could you?”

“Lor’ lumme,” said the incensed Mr. Kidd, pushing Mr. Gibbs forward.  “Here he is.  Same as you saw ’im last, except for ’is whiskers.  Don’t make that sobbing noise; people’ll be coming in.”

“Oh!  Oh!  Oh!  Take ’im away,” cried Mrs. Gibbs.  “Go and play your tricks with somebody else’s broken ’art.”

“But it’s your husband,” said Mr. Brown.

“Take ’im away,” wailed Mrs. Gibbs.

Mr. Kidd, grinding his teeth, tried to think. “’Ave you got any marks on your body, Joe?” he inquired.

“I ain’t got a mark on me,” said Mr. Gibbs with a satisfied air, “or a blemish.  My skin is as whi—­”