"My dear fellow," he said, "to the best of my knowledge, I have no
cousin named Archibald Enwright."

A pleasant situation, you must admit! It's bad enough when you come
to them with a letter from their mother, but here was I in this
Englishman's rooms, boldly flaunting in his face a warm note of
commendation from a cousin who did not exist!

"I owe you an apology," I said. I tried to be as haughty as he,
and fell short by about two miles. "I brought the letter in
good faith."

"No doubt of that," he answered.

"Evidently it was given me by some adventurer for purposes of his
own," I went on; "though I am at a loss to guess what they could
have been."

"I'm frightfully sorry--really," said he. But he said it with the
London inflection, which plainly implies: "I'm nothing of the sort."

A painful pause. I felt that he ought to give me back the letter;
but he made no move to do so. And, of course, I didn't ask for it.

"Ah--er--good night," said I and hurried toward the door.

"Good night," he answered, and I left him standing there with
Archie's accursed letter in his hand.