"William Drew?"
He still held the hand as if he were fearful of the vision escaping without that sensible bondage.
"William Drew is right. Sit down. Make yourself to home."
"Thanks!" breathed the other and as if that breath expelled with it all his strength he slumped into a chair and sat with a fascinated eye glued to his host.
Lawlor had time to mark now the signs of long and severe travelling which the other bore, streaks of mud that disfigured him from heel to shoulder; and his face was somewhat drawn like a man who has gone to work fasting.
"William Drew!" he repeated, more to himself than to Lawlor, and the latter formed a silent prayer of gratitude that he was not William Drew.
"I'm forgetting myself," went on the tenderfoot, with a ghost of a smile. "My name is Bard—Anthony Bard."
His glance narrowed again, and this time Lawlor, remembering his part, pretended to start with surprise.
"Bard?"
"Yes. Anthony Bard."