It was scarcely necessary to reply. The platform at the other side of the station was beginning to hum with official activity. A porter appeared on the bridge running and gesticulating as he ran. To me the excitement I had raised seemed ridiculously out of proportion, but the man in the car took in the situation with a single glance.
"Jump in, you scamp," he commanded. "I'm not going to pay for another of your pranks."
"If Frank is going to ride," exclaimed the lady with sudden decision, "I am going to walk."
"Then why the Harry did you come to meet him?" demanded my new old friend with considerable warmth.
"It was necessary for me to see him before I could make up my mind," she replied with dignity. "Now I have seen him."
This did not put me on any better terms with the situation.
"You had better let me explain," I began.
"Hilda, don't be an idiot. Frank, don't be an ass. John, home." All these injunctions operating simultaneously, I found myself sitting down violently opposite the lady as the car leapt forward.
So far I had been an entirely innocent impostor, if an impostor at all. A man can have no better excuse for his presence, I take it, than to be greeted familiarly by name and pressed into the company. I was Frank Staples, securely conscious of my identity, and the mistake, whatever it was, rested with them; but at this point, influenced, need I confess? by the scornful beauty's presence, and by my increasing desire to make her further acquaintance, I entered upon a course of active dissimulation.
We were scarcely clear of the yard when a thought seemed to strike my friend with sharp surprise.
