I thus lost sight of Russell, and until August, 1873, I heard no more of him. I was editing a weekly family newspaper in New York at that time, and oddly enough I was just beginning to write this sketch of my singular acquaintance when Russell himself walked into my office at 245 Broadway and asked me if I remembered him. He was well dressed, in a quiet drab suit, and was scarcely at all changed. He told me that he was married and was living at a certain number in West 43d Street; that he was practising law, being senior member of the firm of Wintermute and Russell, for that his real name was Wintermute, and that his partner, Russell, was a cousin on the mother’s side. He gave me the firm’s card, and begged me to call upon him, both at his house and at his office, which of course I promised to do. I called first at the house. It was a well-built one of pressed brick, and seemed to wear something of Russell’s own air of quiet dignity, standing as it did in a row of more pretentious brown-stone mansions. The door-plate--for door-plates were then still in use--bore the simple word, “Wintermute.” “Is Mr. Wintermute at home?” I asked. “Commander Wintermute is in his library,” answered the lackey, laying special stress upon the naval title. “Ah, certainly, Commander Wintermute,” I answered. “I had forgotten. Will you give him my card? I am an old friend.” I was shown into the parlor,--a conspicuously tasteful apartment,--furnished exactly as I should have expected Russell to furnish it. After a little the door opened, and an elderly gentleman, obviously English, entered, holding my card in a puzzled way before his spectacled nose. “Pardon me,” he said. “The servant must have misunderstood you. He announced you as an old friend.” “Yes,” I replied, “I asked for Commander Wintermute.” “I am he,” replied the gentleman. “Though I certainly fail to recognize either your name or your face. There must be a mistake.” “There certainly seems to be,” I answered, “unless there is another gentleman in your family. The one I am seeking is William Wintermute, whose mother’s name was Russell.” “Then I am certainly the man,” responded my companion. “My name is William Wintermute and my mother’s name was Russell. There is no other gentleman living in the house, and so far as I have ever heard there is no other William Wintermute anywhere.” There was nothing to be done except to apologize and take my leave, which I did as gracefully as I could under the circumstances. At last I was angry with Russell. I had been puzzled by him often enough. This time I was filled with resentment. I at once sought out the law office of Wintermute and Russell. The card, which I had preserved, gave me all necessary information as to its whereabouts, and I was not long in finding it. Mr. Wintermute was there. So was Mr. Russell. But neither was the man for whom I was looking. Neither had ever heard of him. I was still left puzzling over these questions:-- Who is Russell?