"Sure, Vincent, sure!" says I. "Brother-in-law Ferdie, you know. What's the gentleman's real name?"
"Mr. Blair Hiscock," says Vincent, readin' the card.
"Ever hear that one?" I asks Hamilton, and he says he ain't. "Must be some fam'ly friend, though," I goes on. "We'll take a chance, Vincent. Tell Blair to breeze in."
I might have had bean enough to have looked for another pair of shell-rimmed glasses too. That's what shows up. Only this party, instead of beamin' mild and foolish through 'em, same as Ferdie does, stares through his sort of peevish. He's a pale-haired, sharp-faced, undersized young gent too, and dressed sort of finicky in one of them Ballyhooly cape coats, an artist necktie, and a two-story soft hat with a striped scarf wound around it.
"Well?" says I, leanin' back in the swing chair and doin' my best to spring the genial smile.
"Isn't Ferdinand here, then?" he demands, glancin' about impatient.
"Good guess," says I. "He ain't. Drifts in about once a month, though, as a rule, and as it's been three weeks or so since he was here last, maybe you'd like to——"
"How absurd!" snaps Blair. "But he was to meet me here to-day at this time."
"Was, eh?" says I. "Well, if you know Ferdie, you can gamble that he'll be an hour or two behind, if he gets here at all."
"Thanks," says Blair, real crisp. "You needn't bother. I fancy I know Ferdie quite as well as you do."