“All right,” laughed the man. “Come on, Miss Billy.”
On the door at the head of the stairs he tapped twice, lightly.
“Well, Pete,” called Cyril's voice, none too cordially.
“Pete, indeed!” scoffed Bertram. “You've got company, young man. Open the door. Miss Billy is viewing the Strata.”
The bare floor echoed to a quick tread, then the door opened and Cyril faced them with a forced smile on his lips.
“Come in—though I fear there will be little—to see,” he said.
Bertram assumed a pompous attitude.
“Ladies and gentlemen; you behold here the lion in his lair.”
“Be still, Bertram,” ordered Cyril.
“He is a lion, really,” confided Bertram, in a lower voice; “but as he prefers it, we'll just call him 'the Musical Man.'”