"Oh, it was no trouble; no trouble at all," I remarked cheerfully. "I will come again if you like."
"Thank you; but this is our last night, with the exception of Saturday, when one can get together twenty quite easily, so there is no need to trouble you, as you perhaps do not reside in the neighborhood."
"Oh, but I do," I hastened to correct him.
"In that case we shall be very pleased to see you," he replied readily. "I don't remember seeing you before in the district. I presume you are a newcomer."
"Yes, that's it," I exclaimed glibly, secretly more puzzled than ever. He did not remember seeing me before, nor did the man of the doorstep vouchsafe any information as to my identity. Then I could certainly not have been mistaken for somebody else. And yet—what was the meaning of that significant invitation: "We are waiting only for you?"
"I thought you were a stranger," he replied. "I haven't the pleasure of knowing your name."
This was the climax. But I concealed my astonishment, having always found the nil admirari principle the safest in enterprises of this nature. Should I tell him my real name? Yes, why not? I was utterly unknown in London, and my real name would be as effective a disguise as a pseudonym.
"Mendoza," I replied.
"Ah," said the man of the doorstep. "Any relation to the Mendozas of Highbury?"
"I think not," I replied, with an air of reflection.