"Sure," said John.
Mr. Renshaw laughed an acid laugh.
"You may not know it," he said, "but Mr. Scobell is in New York at this very moment. We arrived together yesterday on the Mauretania. I was spending my vacation in England when I happened to see the copy of the paper. I instantly communicated with Mr. Scobell, who was at Mervo, an island in the Mediterranean—"
"I seem to know the name—"
"—and received in reply a long cable desiring me to return to New York immediately. I sailed on the Mauretania, and found that he was one of the passengers. He was extremely agitated, let me tell you. So that your impudent assertion that the proprietor is pleased—"
John raised his eyebrows.
"I don't quite understand," he said. "From what you say, one would almost imagine that you thought Mr. Scobell was the proprietor of this paper."
Mr. Renshaw stared. Everyone stared, except Mr. Jarvis, who, since the readings from the Kid's reminiscences had ceased, had lost interest in the proceedings, and was now entertaining the cats with a ball of paper tied to a string.
"Thought that Mr. Scobell—?" repeated Mr. Renshaw. "Who is, if he is not?"
"I am," said John.