Bert sat up and slid his feet to the floor. In the doorway stood a slim, pleasant-faced youth, and behind him a very serious-looking man held an extremely large kit-bag, an umbrella, and a folded gray overcoat. The youth advanced toward Bert, smiling and removing a gray glove.
“I fancy you are Winslow,” he said. “[I’m Ordway.] I believe we share these quarters, eh?”
Bert shook hands. “Glad to know you,” he replied. “Beastly hot, isn’t it? That’s your room over there.” He glanced inquiringly at the second arrival who, still holding his burdens, had paused just inside the door. But if he looked for an introduction none was forthcoming. Ordway, who had now removed both gloves and tossed them nonchalantly to the table, evidently had no thought of making his companion known.
“Ripping view from here,” he said, glancing from the window. Then, turning: “In there, Bowles,” he directed, and nodded toward the open door of the bedroom. “Just dump them, will you? I’ll look after them myself.”
Bag and coat and umbrella disappeared, Bert’s gaze following their bearer curiously. Ordway had thrust his hands in his pockets and was leisurely examining the study. His manner was a queer mixture of quiet assurance and diffidence. When he had shaken hands he had reddened perceptibly, but now he was looking the place over just as though, as Bert silently told himself, he had ordered the whole thing. “I like this,” he said, after a moment. “Rather jolly, isn’t it?”
Bert was spared a reply, for just then the mysterious Bowles appeared in the bedroom doorway. “Shan’t I unpack the bag, sir?” he asked.
“No, never mind it, thanks.” Ordway consulted a watch. “I fancy you’d better beat it, Bowles. Your train leaves in fifteen minutes, you know.”
“Yes, sir, but there’s another one, sir, a bit later.”