“But pray,” said I, “waive that consideration, and only remember the position in which I now am. If you know any thing of this business, I entreat you to tell me—I promise to take whatever you may be disposed to communicate, in the same good part it is intended.”
“Well, then, I believe you are right; but, first, let me ask you, how do you know of your uncle’s death; for I have reason to doubt it?”
“From Guy; he told me himself.”
“When did you see him, and where?”
“Why, I have just told you; I saw him last night at the Salon.”
“And you could not be mistaken?”
“Impossible! Besides, he wrote to me a note which I received this morning—here it is.”
“Hem—ha. Well, are you satisfied that this is his handwriting?” said Trevanion, as he perused the note slowly twice over.
“Why, of course—but stop—you are right; it is not his hand, nor do I know the writing, now that you direct my attention to it. But what can that mean? You, surely, do not suppose that I have mistaken any one for him; for, independent of all else, his knowledge of my family, and my uncle’s affairs, would quite disprove that.”
“This is really a complex affair,” said Trevanion, musingly. “How long may it be since you saw your cousin—before last night, I mean?”