“Your humble servant,

“Philip Pembroke.”

“Ah,” said I; “that Louisianian cousin of mine, who may or may not live the year out,” recalling the old lawyer’s words.  “He seems to hang on pretty well.  I hope he’ll be interesting; few rich men are.  He writes like a polite creditor.  What did the old fellow say was the matter with him? heart trouble, or consumption?  I can’t remember.”  I threw the note aside and touched up some of my dispatches.

Precisely at ten o’clock the door opened and a man came in.  He was fashionably dressed, a mixture of Piccadilly and Broadway in taste.  He was tall, slender, but well-formed; and his blonde mustache shone out distinctly against a background of tanned skin.  He had fine blue eyes.

“Have I the pleasure of speaking to John Winthrop of New York?” he began, taking off his hat.

I rose.  “I am the man.”

He presented his card, and on it I read, “Philip Pembroke.”

“Philip Pembroke!” I exclaimed.

“Evidently you are surprised?” showing a set of strong white teeth.

“Truthfully, I am,” I said, taking his hand.  “You see,” I added, apologetically, “your family lawyer—­that is—­he gave me the—­er—­impression that you were a sickly fellow—­one foot in the grave, or something like.  I was not expecting a man of your build.”

The smile broadened into a deep laugh, and a merry one, I thought, enviously.  It was so long since I had laughed.

“That was a hobby of the old fellow,” he replied.  “When I was a boy I had the palpitation of the heart.  He never got rid of the idea that I might die at any moment.  He was always warning me about violent exercises, the good old soul.  Peace to his ashes!”

“He is dead?”

“Yes.  When I took to traveling he all but had nervous prostration.  I suppose he told you about that will I made in your favor.  It was done to please him.  Still,” he added soberly, “it stands.  I travel a deal, and no one knows what may happen.  And so you are the John Winthrop my dad treated so shabbily?  Oh, don’t protest, he did.  I should have hunted you up long ago, and given you a solid bank account, only I knew that the son of my aunt must necessarily be a gentleman, and, therefore, would not look favorably upon such a proceeding.”

“Thank you,” said I. The fellow pleased me.

“And then, I did not know but what you cared nothing for money.”

“True.  A journalist doesn’t care anything about money; the life is too easy and pleasant, and most of the things he needs are thrown in, as they say.”

This bit of sarcasm did not pass; my cousin laughed again that merry laugh of his.

“I think we shall become great friends,” he said.  “I like frankness.”

“My remark in its literal sense was the antithesis of frankness.”

“Ah, you said too much not to be frank.  Frankness is one of the reasons why I do not get on well with the women.  I can’t lie in the right place, and when I do it is generally ten times worse than the plain truth.”