The Agony Column

Then the captain looked up from Archie's letter and his cold gaze fell

full upon me.

"My dear fellow," he said, "to the best of my knowledge, I have no

cousin named Archibald Enwright."

A pleasant situation, you must admit! It's bad enough when you come

to them with a letter from their mother, but here was I in this

Englishman's rooms, boldly flaunting in his face a warm note of

commendation from a cousin who did not exist!

"I owe you an apology," I said. I tried to be as haughty as he, and fell

short by about two miles. "I brought the letter in good faith."

"No doubt of that," he answered.

"Evidently it was given me by some adventurer for purposes of his own,"

I went on; "though I am at a loss to guess what they could have been."

"I'm frightfully sorry--really," said he. But he said it with the London

inflection, which plainly implies: "I'm nothing of the sort."

A painful pause. I felt that he ought to give me back the letter; but he

made no move to do so. And, of course, I didn't ask for it.

"Ah--er--good night," said I and hurried toward the door.

"Good night," he answered, and I left him standing there with Archie's

accursed letter in his hand.

That is the story of how I came to this house in Adelphi Terrace. There

is mystery in it, you must admit, my lady. Once or twice since that

uncomfortable call I have passed the captain on the stairs; but the

halls are very dark, and for that I am grateful. I hear him often above

me; in fact, I hear him as I write this.

Who was Archie? What was the idea? I wonder.

Ah, well, I have my garden, and for that I am indebted to Archie the

garrulous. It is nearly midnight now. The roar of London has died away

to a fretful murmur, and somehow across this baking town a breeze has

found its way. It whispers over the green grass, in the ivy that climbs

my wall, in the soft murky folds of my curtains. Whispers--what?

Whispers, perhaps, the dreams that go with this, the first of my letters

to you. They are dreams that even I dare not whisper yet.

And so--good night.

THE STRAWBERRY MAN.