“I flatter thyself I am not entirely unknown. And the annoyances imposed upon me by a certain fame I have achieved had become such that some months ago I began to crave the pleasures of the life of a private man. I determined to go to some sequestered resort where my face was unfamiliar. The possibility of being recognized at Asquith did not occur to me. Fortunately I was. And a singular chance led me to take the name of the man who has committed this crime, and who has the misfortune to resemble me. I suppose that now,” he added impressively, “I shall have to tell you who I am.”
He paused until these words should have gained their full effect. Then he held up the edition de luxe from which he and Miss Thorn had been reading.
“You may have heard, Mrs. Cooke,” said he, addressing himself to our hostess, “you may perhaps have heard of the author of this book.”
Mrs. Cooke was a calm woman, and she read the name on the cover.
“Yes,” she said, “I have. And you claim to be he?”
“Ask my friend Crocker here,” he answered carelessly, no doubt exulting that the scene was going off so dramatically. “I should indeed be in a tight box,” he went on, “if there were not friends of mine here to help me out.”
They turned to me.
“I am afraid I cannot,” I said with what soberness I could.
“What!” says he with a start. “What! you deny me?”
Miss Trevor had her tongue in her cheek. I bowed.