This (as nearly as I can recollect it) is the story told me by my friend Tom Gainsborough, as we sat over a decanter of claret after one of his inimitable little dinners. When it was over I gave a grunt, and flung the but-end of my cigar into the grate.
“There’s one thing I don’t understand about this story,” I then remarked; “and it has misled me all along. Your description of that creature, Kate — her eyes and eyebrows, complexion, hands, and nationality — all persuaded me it was the present Mrs. Gainsborough. Yet it appears she was nothing of the sort!”
“I should think not, indeed!” exclaimed Tom, laughing. “They are as different, even in appearance, as two straight-browed brunettes could possibly be. It is not my fault if you were misled by a description — you who know so well how incurably vague the best descriptions are. Were you to see them side by side, you would acknowledge that they are as little alike as you and I are. As to the American part of it — the truth is they were not really Americans at all: Birchmore and the girl were French; and I in my ignorance mistook their French accent for the Yankee twang. When, several years later, I met some real Americans — and married one of them — I realised my error.”
“Humph! Well, I daresay you were not more stupid than the majority of your countrymen would have been in your place. But another thing — was all that mesmeric business genuine, or a part of the conspiracy?”
“Conspiracy, of course! It was the stock expedient of the gang — and a very ingenious one, I think; for of course the mes............