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But I caught up my bag, swung off the step, and, squeezing between a horse’s wet nose and the back of a brougham, gained the pavement, where a red-baize carpet divided the ranks of the crowd.

“Hullo!” One of the policemen put out a hand to detain me.

“It’s all right,” I assured him; “I belong to the house.” It seemed a safer explanation than that the house belonged to me.

“Is it the ices?” he asked.

But I ran up the porchway, eager to get to grips with Trewlove.

On the threshold a young and extremely elegant footman confronted me.

“Where is Trewlove?” I demanded.

The footman was glorious in a tasselled coat and knee-breeches, both of bright blue. He wore his hair in powder, and eyed me with suspicion if not with absolute disfavour.

“Where is Trewlove?” I repeated, dwelling fiercely on each syllable.

The ass became lightly satirical. “Well we may wonder,” said he; “search the wide world over! But reely and truly you’ve come to the wrong ‘ouse this time. Here, stand to one side!” he commanded, as a lady in the costume of La Pompadour, followed by an Old English Gentleman with an anachronistic Hebrew nose, swept past me into the hall. He bowed deferentially while he mastered their names, “Mr. and Mrs. Levi-Levy!” he cried, and a second footman came forward to escort them up the stairs. To convince myself that this was my own house I stared hard at a bust of Havelock–my late uncle’s chief, and for religious as well as military reasons his beau ideal of a British warrior.

The young footman resumed. “When you’ve had a good look round and seen all you want to see–“

“I am Mr. Richardson,” I interrupted; “and up to a few minutes ago I supposed myself to be the owner of this house. Here–if you wish to assure yourself–is my card.”

His face fell instantly, fell so completely and woefully that I could not help feeling sorry for him. “I beg pardon, sir–most ‘umbly, I do indeed. You will do me the justice, sir–I had no idea, as per description, sir, being led to expect a different kind of gentleman altogether.

“You had my telegram, then?”

“Telegram, sir?” He hesitated, searching his memory.

“Certainly–a telegram sent by me at one o’clock this afternoon, or thereabouts–“

Here, with an apology, he left me to attend to a new arrival–a Yellow Dwarf with a decidedly music-hall manner, who nudged him in the stomach and fell upon his neck exclaiming, “My long-lost brother!”

“Cert’nly, sir. You will find the company upstairs, sir.” The young man disengaged himself with admirable dignity and turned again to me. “A telegram did you say–“

“Addressed to ‘Trewlove, 402, Cromwell Road.'”

“William!” He summoned another footman forward. “This gentleman is inquiring for a telegram sent here this afternoon, addressed ‘Trewlove’.”

“There was such a telegram,” said William. “I heard Mr. Horrex a-discussing of it in the pantry. The mistress took the name for a telegraphic address, and sent it back to the office, saying there must be some mistake.”

“But I sent it myself!”

“Indeed, sir?”

“It contained an order to get my room ready.”

“This gentleman is Mr. Richardson,” explained the younger footman.

“Indeed, sir?” William’s face brightened. “In that case there’s no ‘arm done, for your room is ready, and I laid out your dress myself. Mr. ‘Erbert gave particular instructions before going out.”

“Mr. Herbert?” I gazed around me blankly. Who in the name of wonder was Mr. Herbert?

“If you will allow me, sir,” suggested William, taking my bag, while the other went back to his post.

“Thank you,” said I, “but I know my own room, I hope.”

He shook his head. “The mistress made some alterations at the last moment, and you’re on the fourth floor over the street. Mr. ‘Erbert’s last words were that if you arrived before him I was to ‘ope you didn’t mind being so near the roof.”