“Dodd, of San Francisco,” I continued. “Late of Pinkerton and Dodd.”
“Montana Block, I think?” said he.
“The same,” said I.
Neither of us looked at each other; but I could see his hand deliberately making bread pills.
“That's a nice thing of yours,” I pursued, “that panel. The foreground is a little clayey, perhaps, but the lagoon is excellent.”
“You ought to know,” said he.
“Yes,” returned I, “I'm rather a good judge of—that panel.”
There was a considerable pause.
“You know a man by the name of Bellairs, don't you?” he resumed.
“Ah!” cried I, “you have heard from Doctor Urquart?”