Then a new voice said importantly: "The marks on his suitcase are
'F. F., New York."

I appreciated instantly that to be identified as Fletcher Farrell
meant humiliation and disaster. The other Fletcher Farrells would
soon return to New Bedford. They would learn that in their absence
I had been spying upon the home I had haughtily rejected. Besides,
one of the chorus might remember that three years back Fletcher
Farrell had been a popular novelist and might recognize me, and
Miss Briggs would discover I was not an automobile agent and that
I had lied to her. I saw that I must continue to lie to her. I
thought of names beginning with " F," and selected " Frederick
Fitzgibbon." To christen yourself while your eyes are shut and your
head rests on a curb-stone is not easy, and later I was sorry I had
not called myself Fairchild as being more aristocratic. But then it
was too late. As Fitzgibbon I had come back to life, and as
Fitzgibbon I must remain.

When I opened my eyes I found the first voice belonged to a
policeman who helped me to my feet and held in check the male
chorus. The object of each was to lead me to a drink. But instead
I turned dizzily to Miss Briggs. She was holding my hat and she
handed it to me. Her lovely eyes were filled with relief and her
charming voice with remorse.

"I--I can't possibly thank you," she stammered. "Are you badly
hurt?"

I felt I had never listened to words so original and well chosen.
In comparison, the brilliant and graceful speeches I had placed on