“Chapter Two,” observed Staff, leaning back. “It is a dark and stormy night; we are all seated about the camp-fire. The captain says: ‘Antonio, go to it.’”
“You are certainly one swell, appreciative audience,” commented Iff morosely. “Let’s see if I can’t get a laugh with this one: One of the best little things my dear little cousin does being to pass himself off as me, he got himself hired by the Treasury Department some years ago under the name of William Howard Iff. That helped him a lot in his particular line of business. But after a while he felt that it cramped his style, so he just faded noiselessly away—retaining his credentials. Then—while I was in Paris last week—he thought it would be a grand joke to send me that document with his compliments and the suggestion that it might be some help to me in my campaign for his scalp. That’s how I happened to have it.”
“That’s going some,” Staff admitted admiringly. “Tell me another one. If you’re Iff and not Ismay, what brought you over on the Autocratic?”
“Business of keeping an eye on my dearly beloved cousin,” said Iff promptly.
“You mean Ismay was on board, too?”
“’Member that undergrown waster with the red-and-grey Vandyke and the horn-rimmed pince nez, who was always mooning round with a book under his arm?”
“Yes....”
“That was Cousin Arbuthnot disguised in his own hair.”
“If that was so, why didn’t you denounce him when you were accused of stealing the Cadogan collar?”
“Because I knew he hadn’t got away with it.”