"Oh—er—no," he interrupted. "I'd better tell you who I am—stupid of me. I'm—er—my name is Fielding. Colonel Fielding."
Colonel Fielding!—Fielding?
But that was the name of our landlord! That was the officer from whom we'd taken over our Golder's Green flat!
How we'd talked and talked over the fancy picture that we had made up of him—the white-moustached old warrior of a bygone age, as we had imagined him!
Now, here he stood before us—and could anything be less like our preconceived view of him?
Colonel Fielding in the flesh was a young man of twenty-six, slim-waisted and fair. The white moustache of our imaginings was represented by the merest hint of close-cropped golden down upon his upper lip.
I could hardly believe it.
"Do you mean," I exclaimed, "that you are really the Colonel Fielding who let us his flat?"
"Er—yes. I am." He reddened, actually reddened all over his face as he cleared his throat and added, "Do you mind telling me—are you Miss Elizabeth Weare?"
"No, I'm Miss Matthews," I told him. "That's Miss Weare——"