"I hoped you might be kind enough to allow me to escort you on this little stroll of yours, Miss Smith," said the young American politely, lifting his grey felt hat. "See here, I guess I'd better introdooce myself. I'm Hiram P. Jessop, of Chicago."
"You are a detective, too, I suppose," I said, still more coldly. We were standing by the railings of the old London churchyard close to the river. The dark-green leaves of the plane-trees rustled above us. "I suppose you are following me to find out if I'm taking Mr. Rattenheimer's ruby to a pawnshop?"
The young American smiled cheerfully down at me.
"Nix on the detective racket here," he said, in his queer, slow, pleasant accent. "You can cut out that about Rats and his ruby, I guess. I don't care a row o' beans where his old ruby has gann to. What I wanted to ask you about was——" He concluded with a most unexpected two words—
—"My cousin!"
I stared up at this big young stranger in the padded grey coat.
"Your cousin? But—I think you're making some mistake——"
"I guess not," said the young American. "You're my cousin's maid all right, aren't you? You're Miss Million's maid?"
"Yes. Yes, of course," I said, clinging on to that one straw of fact in an ocean of unexpectedness. "I'm her maid——"
"And I'm her cousin," said the young American simply. "Second cousin, or second, once removed—or something of that sort. You haven't heard of me?"