“Miss Chester,” said Jimmy, forcing himself to speak calmly, “has just been telling me that she has promised to marry you.”

“Quite true,” said Lord Wisbeach.  “It will be announced to-morrow.”  A remark trembled on his lips, to the effect that he relied on Jimmy for a fish-slice, but prudence kept it unspoken.  He was unable at present to understand Jimmy’s emotion.  Why Jimmy should object to his being engaged to Ann, he could not imagine.  But it was plain that for some reason he had taken the thing to heart, and, dearly as he loved a bit of quiet fun, Lord Wisbeach decided that the other was at least six inches too tall and fifty pounds too heavy to be bantered in his present mood by one of his own physique.  “Why not?”

“It won’t be announced to-morrow,” said Jimmy.  “Because by to-morrow you will be as far away from here as you can get, if you have any sense.”

“What do you mean?”

“Just this.  If you haven’t left this house by breakfast time to-morrow, I shall expose you.”

Lord Wisbeach was not feeling particularly happy, but he laughed at this.

“You!”

“That’s what I said.”

“Who do you think you are, to go about exposing people?”

“I happen to be Mrs. Pett’s nephew, Jimmy Crocker.”

Lord Wisbeach laughed again.

“Is that the line you are going to take?”

“It is.”

“You are going to Mrs. Pett to tell her that you are Jimmy Crocker and that I am a crook and that you only pretended to recognise me for reasons of your own?”

“Just that.”

“Forget it!” Lord Wisbeach had forgotten to be alarmed in his amusement.  He smiled broadly.  “I’m not saying it’s not good stuff to pull, but it’s old stuff now.  I’m sorry for you, but I thought of it before you did.  I went to Mrs. Pett directly after lunch and sprang that line of talk myself.  Do you think she’ll believe you after that?  I tell you I’m ace-high with that dame.  You can’t queer me with her.”

“I think I can.  For the simple reason that I really am Jimmy Crocker.”

“Yes, you are.”

“Exactly.  Yes, I am.”

Lord Wisbeach smiled tolerantly.

“It was worth trying the bluff, I guess, but it won’t work.  I know you’d be glad to get me out of this house, but you’ve got to make a better play than that to do it.”

“Don’t deceive yourself with the idea that I’m bluffing.  Look here.”  He suddenly removed his coat and threw it to Lord Wisbeach.  “Read the tailor’s label inside the pocket.  See the name.  Also the address.  ’J.  Crocker.  Drexdale House.  Grosvenor Square.  London.’”

Lord Wisbeach picked up the garment and looked as directed.  His face turned a little sallower, but he still fought against his growing conviction.

“That’s no proof.”

“Perhaps not.  But, when you consider the reputation of the tailor whose name is on the label, it’s hardly likely that he would be standing in with an impostor, is it?  If you want real proof, I have no doubt that there are half a dozen men working on the Chronicle who can identify me.  Or are you convinced already?”