“I think,” Ned said, “that you have had all the dope you need to-night. Besides, I want you to answer a few questions.”
“Perhaps I have,” the man said, “but, supposing that to be the case, where do you come in? You are a new one on me, and I hope you won’t flop out of a window or go up through the roof, as some of the others have done. I want to have congenial company to-night. Who are you?”
“Ned Nestor,” was the quiet reply.
“So,” said the man on the couch. “I’ve heard of you—read about you and the Canal Zone in the newspapers. But you’re only a kid. What about that?”
“I can’t help being young,” laughed Ned. “Anyway, that is a fault I’ll soon get over. We all have it at first.”
“And get over it too quickly,” said the other, with a sigh. “Well, what do you want here?”
“Are you Albert Lemon?” asked Ned abruptly.
“Yes,” was the reply, “I’m Albert Lemon. What about it?”
The man was gaining mental strength every moment now, and seemed to sense the strange situation.
“Stiles is your tailor?” the boy went on.