“Dear me,” gasped Mrs. Harris. “What a shock!” and then, recovering herself, she repeated doubtfully: “Lord Beauchamp an imposter?”
“He’s a villain anyhow, Auntie!” exclaimed Sam. “The same ‘gent’ who ran me down when I was tracking the Dago up there near the City park—thought he put me out of business.”
“What proof have you that he is an imposter?” demanded Mrs. Harris, sternly.
“Yes, proof, proof! That is what we want!” exclaimed James Harris, visibly agitated.
“To satisfy himself the detective cabled our Ambassador at London to make inquiry. This morning he received a reply.” And so saying, Sam took from his pocket an envelop containing a cablegram and handed it to Mr. Harris, with the remark: “Uncle, the detective turned it over to me at noon.”
Mr. Harris took from the envelop the cablegram, and adjusting his eyeglasses, read aloud:
“There’s only one Lord Beauchamp in England’s peerage, and he, with whom I am personally acquainted, was at the embassy yesterday.”
It was signed “White.”
Then Mr. Harris looked over the paper in his hand—over the eyeglasses into nothingness, with an expression on his face of deep chagrin, and in a low voice, as though muttering to himself, indiscreetly said:
“Damn the luck! The fellow is into me for ten thousand dollars.”