The Double Life Of Mr. Alfred Burton. E. Phillips Oppenheim

in the middle of the road.

      "What an exquisite perfume!" the young man murmured, enthusiastically. "Doesn't it remind you, Mr. Lynn, of a beautiful garden somewhere right away in the country—one of those old-fashioned gardens, you know, with narrow paths where you have to push your way through the flowers, and where there are always great beds of pink and white stocks near the box edges? And do you notice—an accident, of course—but what a delicate blend of color the lilac and those yellow jonquils make!"

      "I can't smell anything," the American declared, a little impatiently, "and I don't know as I want to just now. I am here to talk business, if you don't mind."

      "In one moment," Burton replied. "Excuse me for one moment, if you please."

      He hastened across the street and returned a moment or two later with a bunch of violets in his hand. Mr. Lynn watched him, partly in amazement, partly in disapproval. There seemed to be very little left of the smart, businesslike young man whose methods, only a short time ago, had commanded his unwilling admiration. Mr. Alfred Burton's expression had undergone a complete change. His eyes had lost their calculating twinkle, his mouth had softened. A pleasant but somewhat abstracted smile had taken the place of his forced amiability.

      "You will forgive me, won't you?" he said, as he regained the pavement.

       "I really haven't smelt violets before this year. Spring comes upon us

       Londoners so suddenly."

      "About that house, now," the American insisted, a little sharply.

      "Certainly," Burton replied, removing his eyes unwillingly from the

       passing barrow. "I really don't think you had better take it, Mr.

       Lynn. You see, it is not generally known, but there is no doubt that

       Lord Idlemay had typhoid fever there."

      "Typhoid!" Mr. Lynn exclaimed, incredulously.

      His companion nodded.

      "Two of the servants were down with it as well," he continued. "We implored Lady Idlemay, when she offered us the letting of the house, to have the drains put in thorough order, but when we got the estimate out for her she absolutely declined. To tell you the truth, the best agents had all refused, under the circumstances, to have the house upon their books at all. That is why we got the letting of it."

      Mr. Lynn removed the cigar from his mouth for a moment. There was a slight frown Upon his forehead. He was puzzled.

      "Say, you're not getting at me for any reason, are you?" he demanded.

      "My dear sir!" Burton protested, eagerly. "I am simply doing my duty and telling you the truth. The house is not in a fit state to be let to any one—certainly not to a man with a family. If you will permit me to say so, you are not going the right way to secure a suitable house. You simply walked into our office because you saw the sign up, and listened to anything the governor had to say. We haven't any west-end houses at all upon our books. It isn't our business, unfortunately. Miller & Sons, or Roscoe's, are the best people. No one would even come to see you at Idlemay House, much less stay with you—the place has such a bad reputation."

      "Then will you be good enough to just explain to me why you were cracking it up like blazes only a few minutes ago?" Mr. Lynn demanded, indignantly. "I nearly took the darned place!"

      Mr. Burton shook his head penitently.

      "I am afraid that I cannot explain, sir," he confessed. "To tell you the truth, I do not understand in the least how I could have brought myself to be so untruthful. I am only thankful that no harm has been done."

      They had reached the corner of the street in which the offices of Messrs. Waddington & Forbes were situated. Mr. Lynn came to a full stop.

      "I can't see but what we might just as well part here, young man," he declared. "There's no use in my coming to your office, after what you've told me."

      "Not the slightest," Mr. Burton admitted frankly, "in fact you are better away. Mr. Waddington would certainly try to persuade you to take the house. If you'll accept my advice, sir, you will go to Miller & Sons in St. James's Place. They have all the best houses on their books and they are almost certain to find something to suit you."

      Mr. Lynn gazed once more at his companion curiously.

      "Say, I'm not quite sure that I can size you up, even now," he said. "At first I thought that you were a rare little hustler, right on the job. I was set against that house and yet you almost persuaded me into taking it. What's come over you, anyway?"

      Mr. Burton shook his head dubiously.

      "I am afraid that it is no use asking me," he replied, "for I really don't quite know myself."

      Mr. Lynn still lingered. The longer he looked at his companion, the more he appreciated the subtle change of demeanor and language which had certainly transformed Mr. Alfred Burton.

      "It was after you came out of that little room," he continued, meditatively, "where that Oriental fellow had been shut up. The more I think of it, the odder it seems. You were as perky as mustard when you went in and you've been sort of dazed ever Since you came out."

      Mr. Burton lifted his hat.

      "Good day, sir!" he said. "I trust that you will find a residence to suit you."

      Mr. Lynn strolled off with a puzzled frown upon his forehead, and

       Alfred Burton, with a slight gesture of aversion, pushed open the

       swinging doors which led into the offices of Messrs. Waddington &

       Forbes.

CHAPTER II

       Table of Contents

      A TRANSFORMATION

      Burton stood for a moment upon the threshold of the office, looking around him. A new and peculiar distaste for these familiar surroundings seemed suddenly to have sprung into life. For the first time he realized the intense ugliness of this scene of his daily labors. The long desk, ink-splashed and decrepit, was covered with untidy piles of papers, some of them thick with dust; the walls were hung with seedy-looking files and an array of tattered bills; there were cobwebs in every corner, gaps in the linoleum floor-covering. In front of the office-boy—a youth about fourteen years of age, who represented the remaining clerical staff of the establishment—were pinned up several illustrations cut out from Comic Cuts, the Police News, and various other publications of a similar order. As Burton looked around him, his distaste grew. It seemed impossible that he had ever existed for an hour amid such an environment. The prospect of the future was suddenly hugely distasteful.

      Very slowly he changed his coat and climbed on to his worn horsehair stool, without exchanging his usual facetious badinage with the remaining member of the staff. The office-boy, who had thought of something good to say, rather resented his silence. It forced him into taking the initiative, a position which placed him from the first at a disadvantage.

      "Any luck with the Yank, Mr. Burton?" he inquired, with anxious civility.

      Burton shook his head.

      "None at all," he confessed. "He wouldn't have anything to do with the house."

      "Has any one been letting on to him about it, do you think?"

      "I don't think so," Burton replied. "I don't think any one else has mentioned it to him at all. He seems to be a complete stranger here."

      "Couldn't have been quite at your best, could you, Mr. Burton, sir?

       Not your usual bright and eloquent self, eh?"

      The boy grinned and then ducked, expecting a missile. None came, however. Alfred Burton was in a very puzzled state of mind, and he neither showed nor indeed