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He sat down for a moment to consider another point. His own old Waterbury and rolled gold chain, and the few unimportant letters in his pockets—where were they?

He determined to clear this matter at once, and boldly rang the bell.

The valet answered it.

“When I came back last night—er—was there anything in my pockets?” asked he.

“No, my Lord. They had taken everything from the pockets.”

“No watch and chain?”

“No, my Lord.”

“Have you the clothes I came back in?”

“Yes, my Lord.”

“Go and fetch them.”

The man disappeared and returned in a minute with a bundle of clothes neatly folded on his arm.

“Mr. Church told me to keep them careful, lest you’d want to put the matter in the hands of the police, my Lord, shockin’ old things they are.”

Jones examined the clothes. They were his own. Everything he had worn yesterday lay there, and the sight of them filled his mind with a nostalgia and a desire for them—a home sickness and a clothes sickness—beyond expression.

He was absolutely sure from the valet’s manner that the servants were not “in the know.” A wild impulse came on him to take the exhibitor of these remnants of his past into his confidence. To say right out: “I’m Jones. Victor Jones of Philadelphia. I’m no Lord. Here, gimme those clothes and let me out of this—let’s call it quits.”