"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?"
"Several years; above six, certainly."
"Oh, it is quite possible, then," said Trevanion, musingly; "do you know, Mr. Lorrequer, this affair seems much more puzzling to me than to you, and for this plain reason—I am disposed to think you never saw your cousin last night."