“Oh! I know. Griggs—that’s the man’s name.”
“What is Griggs, anyway?” asked Robert Lauderdale, in the hoarse growl which served him for a voice at present.
“Griggs? He’s what they call a man of letters, or a literary man, or a novelist, or a genius, or a humbug. I’ve always known him a little, though he’s younger than I am. The only good thing I know about him is that he works hard. Now don’t talk. It isn’t good for you.”
“Well—you talk, then. I’ll listen,” grumbled old Lauderdale.
Thereupon both relapsed into silence, Doctor Routh being one of those people who cannot make conversation to order. Indeed, he was a taciturn man at most times. Lauderdale watched him, coughed a little and turned uneasily, but made a sign to him that he wanted no help.
“Why don’t you talk?” he enquired, at last.
“About Griggs? I haven’t read but one or two of his books. I don’t know what to say about him.”
“Do you think he’s a dangerous friend for a young girl, Routh?”
“Griggs?” Routh laughed in his grey beard. “Hardly! He’s as ugly as a camel, to begin with—and he’s getting on. Griggs—why, Griggs must be fifty, at least. Did you never see him? He’s been about all the spring—came back from the Caucasus in January or February. What put it into your head that he would be a dangerous acquaintance for a young woman?”
“I don’t mean his looks—I mean his ideas.”