“I do,” said Appleby seriously.
As we neared the coffee house he suddenly darted from my side. With some apprehension I saw him, by a somewhat hazardous display of gymnastic ability, mount a window ledge that he might examine closely one of the old ship lanterns that served to light the sign of the coffee house.
He climbed down, shaking his head.
“It won’t do,” he said.
“It won’t do what?” I asked.
“It won’t do for my house,” he replied.
As we entered the vestibule he dropped to his knees and ran an appraising hand over the doormat.
“Too prickly,” he announced. “For me, at any rate.”
We took a table in the little back room, and while Appleby inquisitively fingered the curtain material and searched the bottom of the sugar bowl for the maker’s mark, I examined him. Save for the addition of a blond snippet of mustache, he was much the same as he had been in college. He wore the same sort of assiduously brushed brown suit, the same careful necktie, the same intent, intense air.
“Did you see the Yale game this year?” I asked.