curious confession, doubtful if he was in earnest or if he was the latest illustration of the charlatan, he suddenly stood still. Wondering why he stopped, I turned to look at him. Something in his face and in his bearing had on me the effect of an unexpected cold douche—it gave me quite a start. He was staring about him in a confused, bewildered way—just as a man who had suddenly been roused from sleep. All at once he said, as if speaking to himself—
"I must have overslept myself." He turned to me, seemingly with a start of surprise. "Attree!—what the deuce are you doing here?"
"Mr. Goad!" I exclaimed.
"Goad!" He seemed to be making an effort at recollection. "Oh, of course! That's the fellow who's so like me, and who plays the piano like a madman. Come along, we shall be late—Mrs. Groome and the girls will give it to us if we are."
"Mr. Goad!" I repeated, feeling as if it were I who must have been roused from slumber.
Before I could say another word someone grasped my arm. It was Bensberg. He had had his suspicions of what was going to happen, so, unperceived, had followed us.
"My dear Attree," he said, "will you do me the pleasure of introducing me to your friend, of whom you have spoken to me so often—Mr. Groome—I believe that it is Mr. Groome?"
"My name is Groome," said he. For the moment for the life of me I could not have said if it was Mr. Groome or Mr. Goad.
"And my name is Bensberg—Dr. Conrad Bensberg. I am better acquainted with you, Mr. Groome, than
