“It’s ’im!” he shouted; “it’s ’im!”

“Him?” demanded Jeanne.

“It’s Mr. Blagwin!”

Unlike Preston, Jeanne did not scream; nor did she faint.  So greatly did she desire to believe that “’im” was her husband, that he still was in the same world with herself, that she did not ask how he had escaped from the other world, or why, having escaped, he spent his time robbing his own house.

Instead, much like Preston, she threw herself at him and in her young, firm arms lifted him and held him close.

“Jimmie!” she cried, “speak to me; speak to me!”

The blow on the back of the head, the throttling by Preston, the “stopping power” of the bullet, even though it passed only through his leg, had left Jimmie somewhat confused.  He knew only that it was a dream.  But wonderful as it was to dream that once more he was with Jeanne, that she clung to him, needed and welcomed him, he could not linger to enjoy the dream.  He was dead.  If not, he must escape.  Honor compelled it.  He made a movement to rise, and fell back.

The voice of Preston, because he had choked his master, full of remorse, and, because his mistress had shot him, full of reproach, rose in dismay: 

“You’ve ’it ’im in the leg, ma’am!”

Jimmie heard Jeanne protest hysterically: 

“That’s nothing, he’s alive!” she cried.  “I’d hit him again if it would only make him speak!” She pressed the bearded face against her own.  “Speak to me,” she whispered; “tell me you forgive me.  Tell me you love me!”

Jimmie opened his eyes and smiled at her.

“You never had to shoot me,” he stammered, “to make me tell you that.”

THE CARD-SHARP

I had looked forward to spending Christmas with some people in Suffolk, and every one in London assured me that at their house there would be the kind of a Christmas house party you hear about but see only in the illustrated Christmas numbers.  They promised mistletoe, snapdragon, and Sir Roger de Coverley.  On Christmas morning we would walk to church, after luncheon we would shoot, after dinner we would eat plum pudding floating in blazing brandy, dance with the servants, and listen to the waits singing “God rest you, merry gentlemen, let nothing you dismay.”

To a lone American bachelor stranded in London it sounded fine.  And in my gratitude I had already shipped to my hostess, for her children, of whose age, number, and sex I was ignorant, half of Gamage’s dolls, skees, and cricket bats, and those crackers that, when you pull them, sometimes explode.  But it was not to be.  Most inconsiderately my wealthiest patient gained sufficient courage to consent to an operation, and in all New York would permit no one to lay violent hands upon him save myself.  By cable I advised postponement.  Having lived in lawful harmony with his appendix for fifty years, I thought, for one week longer he might safely maintain the status quo.  But his cable in reply was an ultimatum.  So, on Christmas eve, instead of Hallam Hall and a Yule log, I was in a gale plunging and pitching off the coast of Ireland, and the only log on board was the one the captain kept to himself.