“Oh, yes,” said Mendenhall unsuspiciously, thinking of the check sent to the Farmers’ and Citizens’ Bank.  The president, thinking of the other, was fully reassured, and was about to pass on.  Here the matter might have dropped, and would in most cases.  But Mendenhall, a methodical and careful man, wished to vindicate his business prudence by explaining that he had taken no risk in indorsing for a stranger, since he retained possession of the goods.

The rest is too painful.

“I do not rhyme for that dull wight” who does not foresee that New York, Chicago and Denver checks were returned in due course, legibly inscribed with the saddest words of tongue or pen, “No funds.”  Or that Mr. Britt fully justified his self-given reputation for absence of mind by neglecting to call for his furniture.

Meanwhile, Mr. Britt unostentatiously absented his body as well, taking the trolley for an inland village.  At the time of Mendenhall’s interview with the president he was speeding southward across country in a livery rig, catching the Lackawanna local for Binghamton about the time the wires were working and he was being searched for on all Lehigh Valley trains.

“Hello, Kirkland!” he said to the night clerk at the Arlington.  “Back again, like a bad sixpence!  Have my trunk sent up, will you?  No—­no supper!”

“Letter for you, Mr. Mitchell.  Just came,” said the clerk respectfully.  “So we were expecting you.  Haven’t seen you for a long time.”

Britt-Mitchell thrust the letter in his pocket unopened.  “It’ll keep till morning.  I’m for bed.  Good-night, Frank.”

He turned in, weary with his exertions to be sure, but with the pleasing consciousness that

                   ..._some one done
    Has earned a night’s repose_.

Elmsdale never learned these particulars, however.  His genial and expansive smile and the unobtrusive manner of his fading away are there vaguely associated with Cheshire Puss, of joyful memory, whose disappearance, like his, began with the end of the tale.

Chapter III

    “There’s a franklin in the wilds of Kent, hath
    brought three hundred marks with him in gold ... a
    kind of auditor.”

It was quite late when Britt-Mitchell arose like a giant refreshed.  First ringing for breakfast, he bathed and shaved and arrayed himself carefully in glad habiliments of quiet taste and cut, in which he bore slight resemblance to the rough-and-ready Britt of Elmsdale.

Sitting indolently sideways to the table, his feet on a chair, he discussed an excellent breakfast leisurely, as one at peace with the world.  His paper was propped before him; he chuckled as he read.  Breakfast finished, he pulled his coffee over, lit a cigar and puffed luxuriously.  Not till then did he open the letter taken from the discarded coat of yesterday.  It read: