CHAPTER XIV.
MY BROTHER HENRY.
[Illustration] Strictly speaking I never had a brother Henry, and yet I cannot say that Henry was an impostor.

He came into existence in a curious way, and I can think of him now without malice as a child of smoke.

The first I heard of Henry was at Pettigrew's house, which is in a London suburb, so conveniently situated that I can go there and back in one day.

I was testing some new Cabanas, I remember, when Pettigrew remarked that he had been lunching with a man who knew my brother Henry.

Not having any brother but Alexander, I felt that Pettigrew had mistaken the name.
"Oh, no," Pettigrew said; "he spoke of Alexander too." Even this did not convince me, and I asked my host for his friend's name.