"I'm looking for a chap named Wellar. He landed here some time late in
November."
"Friend of yours?"
"Um—m—not exactly." Mr. Williams ran a hand meditatively over the ragged scar on his scalp, as if from force of habit.
"Wellar? I never heard of him."
"He may have travelled under another name. Ever hear of a fellow called
Locke?"
The consul's moist lips drew together, his red eyes gleamed watchfully.
"Maybe I have, and maybe I haven't," said he. "Why do you want him?"
"I heard he was here. I'd enjoy meeting him again."
"What does he look like?"
Mr. Williams rattled off a description of Kirk Anthony so photographic that the consul suddenly saw a great light.
"Yes, I know him all right," he confessed, warmly. "He's a good friend of mine, too; in fact, he lived with me for a while." Misconstruing the eager expression that came to his caller's face, he rose heavily and thrust out a thick, wet hand. "Don't let's beat about the bush, Mr. Anthony; your son is safe and well and making a name for himself. I'm happy to say I helped him—not much, to be sure, but all I could—yes, sir, I acknowledge the corn—and I'm glad to meet you at last. I have been waiting for you to arrive, and I'm glad you dropped in on me. I have a lot of things to talk about."