“Argue as I would, however, the face was the face of Joseph; and, moved by a curiosity I could not control, I kept near him, watching him.

“Once, for a little while, I missed him; but there was not much fear of losing that suit for long, and after a little looking about I struck it again.  He was sitting at the end of the pier, where it was less crowded, with his arm round a girl’s waist.  I crept close.  She was a jolly, red-faced girl, good-looking enough, but common to the last degree.  Her hat lay on the seat beside her, and her head was resting on his shoulder.  She appeared to be fond of him, but he was evidently bored.

“‘Don’tcher like me, Joe?’ I heard her murmur.

“‘Yas,’ he replied, somewhat unconvincingly, ‘o’ course I likes yer.’

“She gave him an affectionate slap, but he did not respond, and a few minutes afterwards, muttering some excuse, he rose and left her, and I followed him as he made his way towards the refreshment-room.  At the door he met one of his pals.

“‘Hullo!’ was the question, ’wot ‘a yer done wi’ ‘Liza?’

“’Oh, I carn’t stand ‘er,’ was his reply; ‘she gives me the bloomin’ ’ump.  You ’ave a turn with ‘er.’

“His friend disappeared in the direction of ’Liza, and Joe pushed into the room, I keeping close behind him.  Now that he was alone I was determined to speak to him.  The longer I had studied his features the more resemblance I had found in them to those of my superior friend Joseph.

“He was leaning across the bar, clamouring for two of gin, when I tapped him on the shoulder.  He turned his head, and the moment he saw me, his face went livid.

“‘Mr. Joseph Smythe, I believe,’ I said with a smile.

“‘Who’s Mr. Joseph Smythe?’ he answered hoarsely; ’my name’s Smith, I ain’t no bloomin’ Smythe.  Who are you?  I don’t know yer.’

“As he spoke, my eyes rested upon a curious gold ring of Indian workmanship which he wore upon his left hand.  There was no mistaking the ring, at all events:  it had been passed round the club on more than one occasion as a unique curiosity.  His eyes followed my gaze.  He burst into tears, and pushing me before him into a quiet corner of the saloon, sat down facing me.

“‘Don’t give me away, old man,’ he whimpered; ’for Gawd’s sake, don’t let on to any of the chaps ’ere that I’m a member of that blessed old waxwork show in Saint James’s:  they’d never speak to me agen.  And keep yer mug shut about Oxford, there’s a good sort.  I wouldn’t ’ave ’em know as ’ow I was one o’ them college blokes for anythink.’

“I sat aghast.  I had listened to hear him entreat me to keep ‘Smith,’ the rorty ’Arry, a secret from the acquaintances of ‘Smythe,’ the superior person.  Here was ‘Smith’ in mortal terror lest his pals should hear of his identity with the aristocratic ‘Smythe,’ and discard him.  His attitude puzzled me at the time, but, when I came to reflect, my wonder was at myself for having expected the opposite.