“But pray,” said I, “waive that consideration, and only remember the position in which I now am.  If you know any thing of this business, I entreat you to tell me—­I promise to take whatever you may be disposed to communicate, in the same good part it is intended.”

“Well, then, I believe you are right; but, first, let me ask you, how do you know of your uncle’s death; for I have reason to doubt it?”

“From Guy; he told me himself.”

“When did you see him, and where?”

“Why, I have just told you; I saw him last night at the Salon.”

“And you could not be mistaken?”

“Impossible!  Besides, he wrote to me a note which I received this morning—­here it is.”

“Hem—­ha.  Well, are you satisfied that this is his handwriting?” said Trevanion, as he perused the note slowly twice over.

“Why, of course—­but stop—­you are right; it is not his hand, nor do I know the writing, now that you direct my attention to it.  But what can that mean?  You, surely, do not suppose that I have mistaken any one for him; for, independent of all else, his knowledge of my family, and my uncle’s affairs, would quite disprove that.”

“This is really a complex affair,” said Trevanion, musingly.  “How long may it be since you saw your cousin—­before last night, I mean?”

“Several years; above six, certainly.”

“Oh, it is quite possible, then,” said Trevanion, musingly; “do you know, Mr. Lorrequer, this affair seems much more puzzling to me than to you, and for this plain reason—­I am disposed to think you never saw your cousin last night.”

“Why, confound it, there is one circumstance that I think may satisfy you on that head.  You will not deny that I saw some one, who very much resembled him; and certainly, as he lent me above three thousand franks to play with at the table, it looks rather more like his act than that of a perfect stranger.”

“Have you got the money?” asked Trevanion dryly.

“Yes,” said I; “but certainly you are the most unbelieving of mortals, and I am quite happy that I have yet in my possession two of the billets de banque, for, I suppose, without them, you would scarcely credit me.”  I here opened my pocket-book, and produced the notes.

He took them, examined them attentively for an instant, held them between him and the light, refolded them, and, having placed them in my pocket-book, said—­“I thought as much—­they are forgeries.”

“Hold!” said I, “my cousin Guy, whatever wildness he may have committed, is yet totally incapable of—­”

“I never said the contrary, replied Trevanion, in the same dry tone as before.

“Then what can you mean, for I see no alternative between that and totally discrediting the evidence of my senses?”