'Going to bed at half-past ten in New York! My
dear chap, what you want is a bit of supper. Why don't you come
along?'
Amiability was, perhaps, the leading quality of Lord Dawlish's
character. He did not want to have to dress and go out to supper,
but there was something almost pleading in the eyes that looked at
him between the sharply-pointed knees.
'It's awfully good of you--' He hesitated.
'Not a bit; I wish you would. You would be a life-saver.'
Bill felt that he was in for it. He got up.
'You will?' said the other. 'Good boy! You go and get into some
clothes and come along. I'm sorry, what did you say your name
was?'
'Chalmers.'
'Mine's Boyd--Nutcombe Boyd.'
'Boyd!' cried Bill.
Nutty took his astonishment, which was too great to be concealed,
as a compliment. He chuckled.
'I thought you would know the name if you were a pal of Gates's. I
expect he's always talking about me. You see, I was pretty well
known in this old place before I had to leave it.'
Bill walked down the long passage to his bedroom with no trace of
the sleepiness which had been weighing on him five minutes before.
He was galvanized by a superstitious thrill. It was fate,
Elizabeth Boyd's brother turning up like this and making friendly
overtures right on top of that letter from her.
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