“Is that so?” returned Smithers in tone of surprise. “I’m pleased to hear it. Where were you bound for?”
“Nowhere in particular,” replied Artie. “We were jus’ takin’ a walk.”
“Seein’ London in a fog, eh? So was I—taking a constitutional. But I guess I’ve had enough and will go back. Come in and see me any time—tomorrow evening if you will.”
“We surely will,” promised Guy. “We’re not likely to forget very soon what you did for us.”
“Oh, that’s nothing,” assured Smithers modestly. “It was easy to do. I had all the advantage. By the way, you haven’t told me your names yet.”
“Beg your pardon,” said Artie. “This is Guy Burton. He’s from the United States. My name is Arthur Fletcher. I’m a clerk at the Morley. I think I remember you. You came to the hotel yesterday, didn’t you?”
“Yes, you’ve got a good memory.”
The boys decided they had seen enough of London in a fog for one evening and returned with Smithers to the hotel. As they were about to separate in the lobby, their new acquaintance repeated his invitation to them to call at his room the following evening.
Guy said nothing about his adventure to his mother that night. He decided that it would make her nervous and that it would be better to tell his story in the morning. But at the breakfast table, where he related his experience, he found his mother possessed of more nerve than he expected. To be sure, she was startled, but as her son had suffered no physical injury, she took the matter coolly and advised him to go out no more on foggy nights.
That evening Guy and Artie called at the room of Smithers. The latter proved to be a striking combination of shrewdness, smiles and nervous alertness. He was rather stout and his eyes were small, black and keen. He received the boys with a warm welcome, unnecessarily warm, it seemed to Guy.