At this moment there entered the restaurant an Immaculate Person. He was a young man attired in faultlessly fitting clothes, with shoes of flawless polish and a perfectly proportioned floweret in his buttonhole. He surveyed the room through a monocle. He was a pleasure to look upon, but Jimmy, catching sight of him, started violently and felt no joy at all; for he had recognised him. It was a man he knew well and who knew him well–a man whom he had last seen a bare two weeks ago at the Bachelors’ Club in London. Few things are certain in this world, but one was that, if Bartling–such was the Vision’s name–should see him, he would come over and address him as Crocker. He braced himself to the task of being Bayliss, the whole Bayliss, and nothing but Bayliss. It might he that stout denial would carry him through. After all, Reggie Bartling was a man of notoriously feeble intellect, who could believe in anything.
The monocle continued its sweep. It rested on Jimmy’s profile.
“By Gad!” said the Vision.
Reginald Bartling had landed in New York that morning, and already the loneliness of a strange city had begun to oppress him. He had come over on a visit of pleasure, his suit-case stuffed with letters of introduction, but these he had not yet used. There was a feeling of home-sickness upon him, and he ached for a pal. And there before him sat Jimmy Crocker, one of the best. He hastened to the table.
“I say, Crocker, old chap, I didn’t know you were over here. When did you arrive?”
Jimmy was profoundly thankful that he had seen this pest in time to be prepared for him. Suddenly assailed in this fashion, he would undoubtedly have incriminated himself by recognition of his name. But, having anticipated the visitation, he was able to say a whole sentence to Ann before showing himself aware that it was he who was addressed.
“I say! Jimmy Crocker!”
Jimmy achieved one of the blankest stares of modern times. He looked at Ann. Then he looked at Bartling again.
“I think there’s some mistake,” he said. “My name is Bayliss.”
Before his stony eye the immaculate Bartling wilted. It was a perfectly astounding likeness, but it was apparent to him when what he had ever heard and read about doubles came to him. He was confused. He blushed. It was deuced bad form going up to a perfect stranger like this and pretending you knew him. Probably the chappie thought he was some kind of a confidence johnnie or something. It was absolutely rotten! He continued to blush till one could have fancied him scarlet to the ankles. He backed away, apologising in ragged mutters. Jimmy was not insensible to the pathos of his suffering acquaintance’s position; he knew Reggie and his devotion to good form sufficiently well to enable him to appreciate the other’s horror at having spoken to a fellow to whom he had never been introduced; but necessity forbade any other course. However Reggie’s soul might writhe and however sleepless Reggie’s nights might become as a result of this encounter, he was prepared to fight it out on those lines if it took all summer. And, anyway, it was darned good for Reggie to get a jolt like that every once in a while. Kept him bright and lively.
So thinking, he turned to Ann again, while the crimson Bartling tottered off to restore his nerve centres to their normal tone at some other hostelry. He found Ann staring amazedly at him, eyes wide and lips parted.
“Odd, that!” he observed with a light carelessness which he admired extremely and of which he would not have believed himself capable. “I suppose I must be somebody’s double. What was the name he said?”
“Jimmy Crocker!” cried Ann.
Jimmy raised his glass, sipped, and put it down.
“Oh yes, I remember. So it was. It’s a curious thing, too, that it sounds familiar. I’ve heard the name before somewhere.”
“I was talking about Jimmy Crocker on the ship. That evening on deck.”
Jimmy looked at her doubtfully.
“Were you? Oh yes, of course. I’ve got it now. He is the man you dislike so.”