November went by, and it was the first week in December, and, strangely enough in this perverse climate of ours, the weather was bitterly cold. It was the sort of weather for my purpose, for Ughtred Gascoyne was a great stickler for fresh air, and it was only in such weather as this that he was likely to shut his windows. He was turning into Bond Street one night when I passed him. I laughed as we met.
“You won’t be allowed to stay out as late as this soon.”
“No, penal servitude is upon me. Coming in?”
We went up to his room, where there was a bright fire burning.
“Now, this is comfortable. By the way, I met a cousin of mine to-day. He says you are in his office.”
“I told you I was in a stockbroker’s office.”
“Yes, but you never told me he was my cousin, and that you are also a cousin.”
“I always leave the Gascoynes to find me out themselves. You see, my mother was a Gascoyne, and she was left to keep lodgings in Clapham.”
He looked at me kindly.
“You don’t feel bitter?”