"Good afternoon," he said, pleasantly, when he had come down from the clouds; for it was Reggie Rex, busy on the outline of his novel.
Derrick returned the salutation and sank on to the bench beside him; and Reggie, after a comprehensive glance, and one of distinct approval, said:
"You look hot, sir. Have a drink. I can recommend the local ale. It is good though not particularly intoxicating."
"Thanks," said Derrick; and he made short work of the tankard of home-brewed which the landlord brought him. "Are you staying here?" he inquired. "I ask, because I want a room for a night or two."
"That's all right," said Reggie. "They'll be able to give you a room, I think. Your portmanteau has arrived already. Is your name Grey?"
"No," replied Derrick, staring at him with pardonable surprise. "Sydney Green."
"Oh, well, it wasn't a bad guess," said Reggie, complacently. "I saw 'S. G.' on your portmanteau, and 'Green' seemed so obvious that I hit on Grey."
"Are you a detective?" asked Derrick, with a laugh.
"Wish I were!" responded Reggie, with a groan. "No; I'm an author, novelist; and I'm engaged on a big detective story. That's why I get all the practice I can. You come from South Africa?"
"Wrong; guess again," said Derrick, with a smile.