The man was a stranger to me, but evidently I was not so to him, for his expression changed at once as our eyes met and, without waiting for me to advance, he stepped hastily towards me, saying as we came together:
“Mr. Bartholomew, is it not?”
I bowed. He had spoken my name.
“I have been waiting for you many interminable minutes,” he hurriedly continued. “I have had bad news from home—a child hurt—and must go at once. So, if you will pardon the informality, I will hand over to you here and now the letter about which I telephoned you, together with a key which I am assured you will find very useful. I am sorry I cannot stop for further explanations; but you will pardon me, I know. You can have nothing to ask which will not keep till to-morrow?”
“No; but—”
I got no further, something in my tone or something in my look seemed to alarm him for he took an immediate advantage of my hesitation to repeat anxiously:
“You are Mr. Bartholomew, are you not? Edgar Quenton Bartholomew?”
I smiled a polite acquiescence and, taking a card from my pocketbook, handed it to him.
He gave it one glance and passed it back. The name corresponded exactly with the one he had just uttered.
With a muttered apology and a hasty nod, he turned and fairly ran to the waiting taxi-cab. Had he looked back—