The Impostor by Edgar Saltus

At the announcement, a whirlwind tossed her thoughts. Into them entered stretches of night. From Archibald, she turned to Revell. He had moved away. With an air of amused wonder, he was considering the servant. If, through the portieres, a giraffe had peered and spoken, he could not have seemed more pleasantly surprised.

Camille, turning again to the servant, agonizedly repeated:

"Mr. Mike?"

Archibald blinked.

"Mr. Mike, mem? I meant Mr. Glendenning."

Camille, who had gasped and half risen, sighed and sank back and, not in relief, but in the abeyance of the shock, motioned that he was to come in.

Then, in a moment, as Glendenning appeared, affably Revell nodded.

"We were just talking about you."

Icily Glendenning surveyed them both.

"You must have been very idle."

"I could have screamed," said Camille. "Did you hear Archibald announce you as Mike?"

Glendenning sat down.

"He's crazy. Since my uncle died, he has not been the same at all."

Camille, who had got her breath, replied:

"Mr. Revell says that no one is ever the same, that life is -- I've forgotten what, but that you are here one minute and gone the next."

Glendenning looked over at Revell.

"You must have been referring to Mike. Personally, I would give a red pippin -- I would give two of them -- to know where he did go."

Revell, who was standing with his back to the mantel, smiled pleasantly, but exasperatingly.

"If I can tell you anything, command me."

Glendenning glared.