But when I got out into the Strand, with its summer evening crowds of people, I happened to glance across the street, and beheld some one that I had just seen in my room--namely, the quiet-faced man from Scotland Yard. How awful! I was being shadowed! It was a horrible feeling. So horrible that I am sure it could not have been any worse if I had really taken the Rattenheimer ruby, and had it fastened securely inside my black coat at the moment! I felt as if I had. I wondered if the man would come across and dog my footsteps! I turned down one of the little quiet streets on the right that lead to the river, and then I did hear footsteps behind me. They were following--positively following--me! "Good evening!" said a quite friendly but un-English voice. It was not the Scotland Yard detective, then, after all. I turned. It was the young American. CHAPTER XXII HER COUSIN TO THE RESCUE "GOOD evening," I said, coldly looking up at the young man, with a glance that said as plainly as possible, "What do you want?" "I hoped you might be kind enough to allow me to escort you on this little stroll of yours, Miss Smith," said the young American politely, lifting his grey felt hat. "See here, I guess I'd better introdooce myself. I'm Hiram P. Jessop, of Chicago." "You are a detective, too, I suppose," I said, still more coldly. We were standing by the railings of the old London churchyard close to the river. The dark-green leaves of the plane-trees rustled above us. "I suppose you are following me to find out if I'm taking Mr. Rattenheimer's ruby to a pawnshop?" The young American smiled cheerfully down at me. "Nix on the detective racket here," he said, in his queer, slow, pleasant accent. "You can cut out that about Rats and his ruby, I guess. I don't care a row o' beans where his old ruby has gann to. What I wanted to ask you about was----" He concluded with a most unexpected two words-- --"My cousin!" I stared up at this big young stranger in the padded grey coat. "Your cousin? But--I think you're making some mistake----" "I guess not," said the young American. "You're my cousin's maid all right, aren't you? You're Miss Million's maid?" "Yes. Yes, of course," I said, clinging on to that one straw of fact in an ocean of unexpectedness. "I'm her maid----" "And I'm her cousin," said the young American simply. "Second cousin, or second, once removed--or something of that sort. You haven't heard of me?" "No, I never have heard of any of Miss Million's cousins," I said, shaking my head with a gesture of firm disbelief. For I summed up his claim to relationship with my mistress as being about as authentic as the Honourable Jim's alleged friendship with her uncle. Only the fibbing of this second young man seemed rather more shameless! I said: "I didn't know that Miss Million had any cousins."