"Philip Pembroke!" I exclaimed.
"Evidently you are surprised?" showing a set of strong white teeth.
"Truthfully, I am," I said, taking his hand. "You see," I added, apologetically, "your family lawyer—that is—he gave me the—er—impression that you were a sickly fellow—one foot in the grave, or something like. I was not expecting a man of your build."
The smile broadened into a deep laugh, and a merry one, I thought, enviously. It was so long since I had laughed.
"That was a hobby of the old fellow," he replied. "When I was a boy I had the palpitation of the heart. He never got rid of the idea that I might die at any moment. He was always warning me about violent exercises, the good old soul. Peace to his ashes!"
"He is dead?"
"Yes. When I took to traveling he all but had nervous prostration. I suppose he told you about that will I made in your favor. It was done to please him. Still," he added soberly, "it stands. I travel a deal, and no one knows what may happen. And so you are the John Winthrop my dad treated so shabbily? Oh, don't protest, he did. I should have hunted you up long ago, and given you a solid bank account, only I knew that the son of my aunt must necessarily be a gentleman, and, therefore, would not look favorably upon such a proceeding."
"Thank you," said I. The fellow pleased me.
"And then, I did not know but what you cared nothing for money."
"True. A journalist doesn't care anything about money; the life is too easy and pleasant, and most of the things he needs are thrown in, as they say."