Joseph Smythe?' he answered hoarsely; 'my name's Smith, I
ain't no bloomin' Smythe. Who are you? I don't know yer.'
"As he spoke, my eyes rested upon a curious gold ring of Indian
workmanship which he wore upon his left hand. There was no mistaking the
ring, at all events: it had been passed round the club on more than one
occasion as a unique curiosity. His eyes followed my gaze. He burst
into tears, and pushing me before him into a quiet corner of the saloon,
sat down facing me.
"'Don't give me away, old man,' he whimpered; 'for Gawd's sake, don't let
on to any of the chaps 'ere that I'm a member of that blessed old waxwork
show in Saint James's: they'd never speak to me agen. And keep yer mug
shut about Oxford, there's a good sort. I wouldn't 'ave 'em know as 'ow
I was one o' them college blokes for anythink.'
"I sat aghast. I had listened to hear him entreat me to keep 'Smith,'
the rorty 'Arry, a secret from the acquaintances of 'Smythe,' the
superior person. Here was 'Smith' in mortal terror lest his pals should
hear of his identity with the aristocratic 'Smythe,' and discard him. His
attitude puzzled me at the time, but, when I came to reflect, my wonder
was at myself for having expected the opposite.
"'I carn't 'elp it,' he went on; 'I 'ave to live two lives.
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