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“Madam,” he cried, “I beg ten thousand pardons! Really, though, this is one of the most remarkable things I ever saw in my life–one of the most remarkable cases of resemblance, I mean. I am sure anyone would be deceived by it; that is my apology. In my own behalf, madam, I must tell you that you are an exact counterpart of someone I know–of Mrs. Beeman Watrous, a very good friend of mine. Pardon me once more, but may I ask if you are related to Mrs. Beeman Watrous? Her cousin perhaps? It isn’t humanly possible that two persons should look so much alike and not be related?”

“I don’t think I ever heard of the lady,” stated Mrs. Propbridge somewhat coldly.

“Again, madam, please excuse me,” he said. “I am very, very sorry to have annoyed you.” He bowed his bared head and turned away. Then quickly he swung on his heel and returned to her, his hat again in his left hand.

“Madam,” he said, “I am fearful that you are suspecting me of being one of the objectionable breed of he-flirts who infest this place. At the risk of being tiresome I must repeat once more that your wonderful resemblance to another person led me into this awkward error. My name, madam, is Murrill–Valentine C. Murrill–and I am sure that if you only had the time and the patience to bear with me I could find someone here–some acquaintance of yours perhaps–who would vouch for me and make it plain to you that I am not addicted to the habit of forcing myself upon strangers on the pretext that I have met them somewhere.”

His manner was disarming. It was more than that; it was outright engaging. He was carefully groomed, smartly turned out; he had the manner and voice of a well-bred person. To Mrs. Propbridge he seemed a candid, courteous soul unduly distressed over a small matter.

“Please don’t concern yourself about it,” she said. “I didn’t suspect you of being a professional masher; I was only rather startled, that’s all.”

“Thank you for telling me so,” he said. “You take a load off my mind, I assure you. Pardon me again, please–but did I understand you to say a moment ago that your name was Propbridge?”

“Yes.”

“It isn’t a very common name. Surely you are not the Mrs. Propbridge?”

Without being in the least presuming he somehow had managed to convey a subtle tribute.

“I am Mrs. Justus Propbridge, if that is what you mean,” she said.

“Well, then,” he said in tones of relief, “that simplifies matters. Is your husband about, madam? If he is I will do myself the honor of introducing myself to him and repeating to him the explanation I have just made to you. You see, I am by way of being one of the small fish who circulate on the outer edge of the big sea where the large financial whales swim, and it is possible that he may have heard my name and may know who I am.”

“My husband isn’t here,” she explained. “He was called away last night on business.”

“Again my misfortune,” he said.

They were in motion now; he had fallen into step alongside her as she moved on back up the boardwalk. Plainly her amazing resemblance to someone else was once more the uppermost subject in his mind. He went back to it.

“I’ve heard before now of dual personalities,” he said, “but this is my first actual experience with a case of it. When I first saw you standing there with your back to me and even when you turned round facing me after I spoke to you, I was ready to swear that you were Mrs. Beeman Watrous. Look, manner, size, voice, hair, eyes–all identical. I know her very well too. I’ve been a guest at one or two of her house parties. It’s curious that you never heard of her, Mrs. Propbridge; she’s the widow of one of the Wilmington Watrouses–the firearms people, you know–guns, rifles, all that sort of thing–and he left her more millions than she knows what to do with.”