I assure you, we meant no disrespect. We have been
matching stories, that is all, pretending that we are people we are
not, endeavoring to entertain you with better detective-tales than,
for instance, the last one you read, 'The Great Rand Robbery.'"
The Baronet brushed his hand, nervously, across his forehead.
"Do you mean to tell me," he exclaimed, "that none of this has
happened? That Lord Chetney is not dead, that his Solicitor did not
find a letter of yours, written from your post in Petersburg, and
that just now, when he charged you with murder, he was in jest?"
"I am really very sorry," said the American, "but you see, sir, he
could not have found a letter written by me in St. Petersburg because
I have never been in Petersburg. Until this week, I have never been
outside of my own country. I am not a naval officer. I am a writer of
short stories. And to-night, when this gentleman told me that you
were fond of detective-stories, I thought it would be amusing to tell
you one of my own--one I had just mapped out this afternoon."
"But Lord Chetney IS a real person," interrupted the Baronet, "and he
did go to Africa two years ago, and he was supposed to have died
there, and his brother, Lord Arthur, has been the heir.
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