We had nearly finished our cups at the table, when Payne, spying a southern friend coming into the saloon, with a number of others, asked to be excused for a moment, and left us.
"The devil!" said Blanchard; "how did you come to know Payne?"
"O, he is one of the acquaintances one picks up in the city, he hardly knows how."
"Yes, yes; but as I happened, by the mistake of a partial acquaintance, to be introduced to him as 'Collins,' I have let it go so. I hope you'll be as careful the rest of the evening to not call me Blanchard, as you have."
"O, we are in the same boat, 'Collins,' you see! He calls me 'Wilson,' and I let it go at that."
"But," said Blanchard, "I must say, 'Wilson,' you are very complaisant, and I hardly thought you would speak to me at all."
"O, well, Blanchard, we grow wiser as we grow older. We don't see things, generally, in the same light we used to."
"True," said he; "and I am glad to find you not unkindly disposed,"—and I doubt not that he was, for he well knew how I loved my cousin, and that I knew he was the cause of her husband's downfall, and her greatest griefs.
"What are you doing these days?" asked B.
"I've turned lawyer," said I, "and have an office on Wall Street. Here's my card. Don't like my profession over much, and so find time to speculate more or less." (Blanchard had never known that I had become a detective, fortunately. Though living in the same city we had been, practically, as wide apart as the poles.)