“Rather,” replied the little stranger, pleasantly.
Opening his coat in haste, he produced a square of pasteboard. “My card,” he said, offering one to Gethryn, who bowed and fumbled in his pockets. As usual, his card-case was in another coat.
“I’m sorry I have none,” he said at length, “but my name is Reginald Gethryn, and I shall give myself the pleasure of calling to thank you for—”
“For nothing,” laughed the other, “excepting for the sketch, which you may have when you come to see me.”
“Thanks, and au revoir,” glancing at the card. “Au revoir, Mr Bulfinch.”
He was giving the signal to the cabby when his new acquaintance stopped him.
“You’re quite sure—you—er—don’t know any newspapermen?”
“Quite.”
“All right—all right—and—er—just don’t mention about my having a flask, if you do meet any of them. I—er—keep it for others. I don’t drink.”
“Certainly not,” began Gethryn, but Mr T. Hoppley Bulfinch had seized his campstool and trotted away across the square.