The name galvanized Percy like a bugle-blast.
“Mr. Bannister!” he exclaimed. “Any relation to Mr. John Bannister, the millionaire?”
Bailey favoured him with a scrutiny through the gold-rimmed glasses which would have frozen his very spine.
“My father’s name is—ah—John, and he is a millionaire.”
Percy met the scrutiny with a suave smile.
“By Jove!” he said. “I know your sister quite well, Mr. Bannister. I meet her frequently at the studio of my friend Kirk Winfield. Very frequently. She is there nearly every day. Well, I must be moving on. Got a date with a man. Goodbye, Freda. Glad you’re going strong. Good night, Mr. Bannister. Delighted to have made your acquaintance. You must come round to the studio one of these days. Good night.”
He moved softly away. Miss Reece watched him go with regret.
“He’s a good little feller, Percy,” she said. “And so he knows your sister. Well, ain’t that nice!”
Bailey did not reply. And to the feast of reason and flow of soul that went on at the table during the rest of the meal he contributed so little that Miss Reece, in conversation that night with her friend alluded to him, not without justice, first as “that stiff,” and, later, as “a dead one.”