“Nowadays,” observed the stud and button merchant at the corner of Exeter Street, “they make ’em out of anything.”
Drawn by a notion that was forming in his mind, Johnny turned his steps up Bedford Street. “Why not?” mused Johnny. “Nobody else seems to have a suspicion. Why should they? I’ll never hear the last of it if they find me out. But why should they find me out? Well, something’s got to be done.”
Johnny walked on quickly. At the door of the Autolycus Club he was undecided for a moment, then took his courage in both hands and plunged through the swing doors.
“Is Mr. Herring—Mr. Jack Herring—here?”
“Find him in the smoking-room, Mr. Bulstrode,” answered old Goslin, who was reading the evening paper.
“Oh, would you mind asking him to step out a moment?”
Old Goslin looked up, took off his spectacles, rubbed them, put them on again.
“Please say Miss Bulstrode—Mr. Bulstrode’s sister.”
Old Goslin found Jack Herring the centre of an earnest argument on Hamlet—was he really mad?
“A lady to see you, Mr. Herring,” announced old Goslin.