ever have.  I heard of Harry five years later—­when Johnnie was nearly five—­but he was on the Continent and I couldn’t go traipsing about with three babies.  Besides, if I had gone!...  Sorry I am to say it, ma’am; but many’s the time he’s beaten me, yes, with his hands and his fists!  He’s knocked me about above a bit.  And I never gave him a word back.  He was my husband, for better for worse, and I forgave him and I still do.  Forgive and forget, that’s what I say.  We only heard of him through Matthew being second curate at St. Paul’s, and in charge of the mission hall.  It was your milkman that happened to tell Matthew that he had a customer same name as himself.  And you know how one thing leads to another.  So we’re here!”

“I never saw this lady in my life,” said Priam excitedly, “and I’m absolutely certain I never married her.  I never married any one; except, of course, you, Alice!”

“Then how do you explain this, sir?” exclaimed Matthew, the younger twin, jumping up and taking a blue paper from his pocket.  “Be so good as to pass this to father,” he said, handing the paper to Alice.

Alice inspected the document.  It was a certificate of the marriage of Henry Leek, valet, and Sarah Featherstone, spinster, at a registry office in Paddington.  Priam also inspected it.  This was one of Leek’s escapades!  No revelations as to the past of Henry Leek would have surprised him.  There was nothing to be done except to give a truthful denial of identity and to persist in that denial.  Useless to say soothingly to the lady visitor that she was the widow of a gentleman who had been laid to rest in Westminster Abbey!

“I know nothing about it,” said Priam doggedly.

“I suppose you’ll not deny, sir, that your name is Henry Leek,” said Henry, jumping up to stand by Matthew.

“I deny everything,” said Priam doggedly.  How could he explain?  If he had not been able to convince Alice that he was not Henry Leek, could he hope to convince these visitors?

“I suppose, madam,” Henry continued, addressing Alice in impressive tones as if she were a crowded congregation, “that at any rate you and my father are—­er—­living here together under the name of Mr. and Mrs. Henry Leek?”

Alice merely lifted her eyebrows.

“It’s all a mistake,” said Priam impatiently.  Then he had a brilliant inspiration.  “As if there was only one Henry Leek in the world!”

“Do you really recognize my husband?” Alice asked.

“Your husband, madam!” Matthew protested, shocked.

“I wouldn’t say that I recognized him as he was,” said the real Mrs. Henry Leek.  “No more than he recognizes me.  After thirty years!....Last time I saw him he was only twenty-two or twenty-three.  But he’s the same sort of man, and he has the same eyes.  And look at Henry’s eyes.  Besides, I heard twenty-five years ago that he’d gone into service with a Mr. Priam Farll, a painter or something, him that was buried in Westminster Abbey.  And everybody in Putney knows that this gentleman——­”