"Thoda, thir?" inquired Nathan of the other guest.
"Yes," was the answer. "And please fill it up."
We settled down into an awkward silence, while Nathan fidgetted with soda-water bottles, Barton fingering his cigar, I toying with a paper-weight, and Willoughby intent upon the fire.
"Carhart," he kept repeating, almost to himself. "Where have I heard that name before? Carhart!"
"Carhart?" said Barton inquiringly.
"Carhart!" repeated Willoughby, with still more abstraction. "Carhart!"
"Yes, Carhart!" I put in, by way of keeping up the train of thought.
"Carhart!" roared Barton, springing to his feet. "Can't anybody say anything but Carhart?"
"And what became of the widow?" Willoughby demanded meditatively.
"I never knew nor cared to know," replied our host.