“The young lady to see Mr. Harry Rayburn,” he said, and laughed.

Thus announced, I passed in. The room was sparsely furnished and smelt of cheap tobacco smoke. Behind a desk a man sat writing. He looked up and raised his eyebrows.

“Dear me,” he said, “if it isn’t Miss Beddingfeld!”

“I must be seeing double,” I apologized. “Is it Mr. Chichester, or is it Miss Pettigrew? There is an extraordinary resemblance to both of them.”

“Both characters are in abeyance for the moment. I have doffed my petticoats⁠—and my cloth likewise. Won’t you sit down?”

I accepted a seat composedly.

“It would seem,” I remarked, “that I have come to the wrong address.”