Mr. Pyecroft, his left forefinger still keeping the place in "Wormwood," stared at the speaker in bewilderment.
"Pardon me, sir, but I completely fail to understand what you are talking about."
"Don't try that con stuff on us; we won't fall for it," advised the lieutenant. He smiled with satiric satisfaction; he was something of a wit in the department. "But if you ain't sure who you are, I'll put you wise: Mr. Thomas Preston, forger of the Jefferson letters, it gives me great pleasure to introduce you to yourself. Shake hands, gents."
Mr. Pyecroft continued his puzzled stare. Then a smile began to break through his bewilderment. Then he laughed.
"So that's it, is it! You take me for that Thomas Preston. I've read about him. He must be a clever fellow, in his own way."
He sobered. "But, gentlemen, if I had the clever qualities attributed to Mr. Preston, I am sure I could apply those qualities to some more useful, and even more profitable, occupation."
"You don't do it bad at all, Preston," observed the lieutenant. "Only, you see, it don't go down."
"I trust," Mr. Pyecroft said good-humoredly, "that it isn't going to be necessary to explain to you that I am not Thomas Preston."
"No, that won't be necessary at all," replied the waggish lieutenant. "Not necessary at all. For you can't."
Mr. Pyecroft raised his eyebrows.