When Dorothy left me with Madge at the window she entered her bedroom and quickly arrayed herself in garments which were facsimiles of those I had lent her.  Then she put her feet into my boots and donned my hat and cloak.  She drew my gauntleted gloves over her hands, buckled my sword to her slim waist, pulled down the broad rim of my soft beaver hat over her face, and turned up the collar of my cloak.  Then she adjusted about her chin and upper lip a black chin beard and moustachio, which she had in some manner contrived to make, and, in short, prepared to enact the role of Malcolm Vernon before her watchful gaoler, Aunt Dorothy.

While sitting silently with Madge I heard the clanking of my sword against the oak floor in Dorothy’s bedroom.  I supposed she had been toying with it and had let it fall.  She was much of a child, and nothing could escape her curiosity.  Then I heard the door open into Aunt Dorothy’s apartments.  I whispered to Madge requesting her to remain silently by the window, and then I stepped softly over to the door leading into the bedroom.  I noiselessly opened the door and entered.  From my dark hiding-place in Dorothy’s bedroom I witnessed a scene in Aunt Dorothy’s room which filled me with wonder and suppressed laughter.  Striding about in the shadow-darkened portions of Lady Crawford’s apartment was my other self, Malcolm No. 2, created from the flesh and substance of Dorothy Vernon.

The sunlight was yet abroad, though into Lady Crawford’s room its slanting rays but dimly entered at that hour, and the apartment was in deep shadow, save for the light of one flickering candle, close to the flame of which the old lady was holding the pages of the book she was laboriously perusing.

The girl held her hand over her mouth trumpet-wise that her voice might be deepened, and the swagger with which she strode about the room was the most graceful and ludicrous movement I ever beheld.  I wondered if she thought she was imitating my walk, and I vowed that if her step were a copy of mine, I would straightway amend my pace.

“What do you read, Lady Crawford?” said my cloak and hat, in tones that certainly were marvellously good imitations of my voice.

“What do you say, Malcolm?” asked the deaf old lady, too gentle to show the ill-humor she felt because of the interruption to her reading.

“I asked what do you read?” repeated Dorothy.

“The ‘Chronicle of Sir Philip de Comynges,’” responded Lady Crawford.  “Have you read it?  It is a rare and interesting history.”

“Ah, indeed, it is a rare book, a rare book.  I have read it many times.”  There was no need for that little fabrication, and it nearly brought Dorothy into trouble.

“What part of the ‘Chronicle’ do you best like?” asked Aunt Dorothy, perhaps for lack of anything else to say.  Here was trouble already for Malcolm No. 2.

“That is hard for me to say.  I so well like it all.  Perhaps—­ah—­perhaps I prefer the—­the ah—­the middle portion.”