“This looks very comfortable, Mr. de Gray,” said the professor, rubbing his hands with satisfaction.

“Why do you call me Mr. de Gray?” asked Philip, thinking he had been misunderstood. “It is plain Gray, without any de.”

“I am only using your professional name,” answered the professor. “Don't you know people will think a great deal more of you if they suppose you to be a foreigner?”

Philip laughed.

“Is Lorenzo Riccabocca your true or professional name, professor?” he asked.

“Professional, of course. My real name—I impart it to you in the strictest confidence—is Lemuel Jones. Think of it. How would that look on a poster?”

“It would not be so impressive as the other.”

“Of course not; and the public need to be impressed. I thank thee for that word, Mr. de Gray. By the way, it's rather a pity I didn't give you a Spanish or Italian name.”

“But I can't speak either language. It would be seen through at once.”

“People wouldn't think of asking. You'd be safe enough. They will generally swallow all you choose to say.”

They went down to dinner presently, and the professor—Philip could not help thinking—ate as if he were half-starved. He explained afterward¹ that elocutionary effort taxes the strength severely², and makes hearty³ eating a necessity.

After dinner was over the professor said:

“Are you content, Mr. de Gray, to leave me to make the necessary arrangements?”

“I should prefer that you would,” said Philip, and he spoke⁴ sincerely. “Probably you understand much better than I what needs to be done.”

“'Tis well! Your confidence is well placed,” said the professor, with a wave of his hand. “Shall you remain in the hotel?”

“No, I think I will walk about the town and see a little of it. I have never been here before.”

Philip took a walk through the principal streets, surveying with curiosity the principal building's, for, though there was nothing particularly

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