The day that President Garfield was shot by the assassin Guiteau, we were at a little watering place on Long Island Sound; and in the mail matter of that day came a letter with the Melbourne post-mark on it.  It was for my wife, but I recognized Mr. Bascom’s handwriting on the envelope, and opened it.  It was the usual note—­as to paucity of lines—­and was written on the customary strip of paper; but there was nothing usual about the contents.  The note informed my wife that if it would be any assuagement of her grief to know that her husband’s lecture-tour in Australia was a satisfactory venture from the beginning to the end, he, the writer, could testify that such was the case; also, that her husband’s untimely death had been mourned by all classes, as she would already know by the press telegrams, long before the reception of this note; that the funeral was attended by the officials of the colonial and city governments; and that while he, the writer, her friend and mine, had not reached Melbourne in time to see the body, he had at least had the sad privilege of acting as one of the pall-bearers.  Signed, “Henry Bascom.”

My first thought was, why didn’t he have the coffin opened?  He would have seen that the corpse was an imposter, and he could have gone right ahead and dried up the most of those tears, and comforted those sorrowing governments, and sold the remains and sent me the money.

I did nothing about the matter.  I had set the law after living lecture doubles of mine a couple of times in America, and the law had not been able to catch them; others in my trade had tried to catch their impostor-doubles and had failed.  Then where was the use in harrying a ghost?  None—­and so I did not disturb it.  I had a curiosity to know about that man’s lecture-tour and last moments, but that could wait.  When I should see Mr. Bascom he would tell me all about it.  But he passed from life, and I never saw him again..  My curiosity faded away.

However, when I found that I was going to Australia it revived.  And naturally:  for if the people should say that I was a dull, poor thing compared to what I was before I died, it would have a bad effect on business.  Well, to my surprise the Sydney journalists had never heard of that impostor!  I pressed them, but they were firm—­they had never heard of him, and didn’t believe in him.

I could not understand it; still, I thought it would all come right in Melbourne.  The government would remember; and the other mourners.  At the supper of the Institute of Journalists I should find out all about the matter.  But no—­it turned out that they had never heard of it.

So my mystery was a mystery still.  It was a great disappointment.  I believed it would never be cleared up—­in this life—­so I dropped it out of my mind.

But at last! just when I was least expecting it——­

However, this is not the place for the rest of it; I shall come to the matter again, in a far-distant chapter.