I handed him the letter. He studied it with growing signs of excitement. “I was right, by God!” “What do you mean?” “The dirty little hypocrite is a Canadian. Look here.” He put the letter on the table between us, and speared at it with his forefinger. “He spells the word ‘labor’ l, a, b, o, u, r. It’s the British spelling, still current in Canada. He isn’t even American. He’s an impostor.” “It’s going to take more than this to prove it.” “I realize that. Get busy, man.” “If you don’t mind, I’ll finish my lunch first.”
