Osborne thanked him, and made for "the gentleman," who turned out to be a jauntily-dressed Italian, bony-faced, square in the jaw, his hair clipped convict-short, but dandily brushed up at the corner of the forehead.
To the question: "Did you by chance pick up a bit of lace just now?" he at once bowed, and showing his teeth in a grin, said:
"He dropped right to my feet from the sky; here he is"—and he presented the lace with much ceremony.
"I am obliged," said Osborne.
"Do not say it," answered the other politely, and they parted, Osborne hurrying back to his room, with the intent to catch a midnight train from Tormouth.
As he entered the house again, the older man, incredibly quick on his uncertain feet, overtook him, and, touching him on the arm, asked if he intended to catch the train that night.
"That is my desire," answered Osborne.
"It is mine, too," said the other; "now, could you give me a seat in your conveyance?"
Osborne said, "With pleasure," and they entered the hotel to prepare to go.
At the same moment the Italian sauntered up to the oak tree beneath which sat Hylda Prout in her Tormouth make-up. Seating himself without seeking her permission, he lit a cigarette.