“Maybe you wouldn’t,” said Eddy. “Anyway, that can wait. Got to see about feeding you now.”
He locked the door behind him and dropped the key into his pocket. Then he opened another door leading out of the sitting room, disclosing a small kitchen.
“Last shover we had, he was a married man,” he explained. “Him and his wife fixed the place up like it is. I been living here myself, lately. Let’s see—I got pork and beans, cawfee, cake—good cake—cook over at the house made it. How does that strike you?”
“Good enough!” answered Ross, a little absently.
Eddy was moving about in the kitchen, whistling between his teeth; from time to time he addressed a cheerful remark to his captive, but got no answer. Presently he brought in a meal, of a sort, and set it out on a table.
“Here you are!” he announced.
Ross drew up his chair, and fell to, with a pretty sharp appetite.
“Look here!” he said, abruptly. “Who was that man—the one who—hired me?”
“Him? The Prince of Wales!” Eddy replied. “Thought you’d recognized him.”
This was Ross’s last attempt at questioning. Indeed, he was quite willing to be silent now, for his deplorably postponed thinking was now well under way. His brain was busy with the events of this day—this immeasurably long day. Was it only this morning that he had got the note? Only this morning that he had said good-by to Phyllis Barron?