"Me too," says I, cheerful. "I'll ride down with you if you don't mind."
"Oh, charmed!" says Clyde.
It wasn't that I was so strong for his comp'ny, but I'd just annexed the idea that it might be a good hunch to get a little line on exactly who this Mr. Clyde Creighton was. Vee don't seem to know anything very definite about him, outside of the Alicia incident; and it struck me that if there was a prospect of havin' him in the fam'ly, as it were, someone ought to see his credentials. Anyway, it wouldn't do any harm to pump him a bit.
"Pardon me for changing my mind," says Clyde, as we hits the sidewalk, "but I think I prefer to walk downtown."
"Just what I was goin' to spring on you," says I. "Fine evenin' for a little thirty-block saunter, too. Let's see, the Plutoria's where you're staying ain't it?"
"Why—er—yes," says he, hesitatin'.
I couldn't make out why he should choke over it, for I'd heard him say distinctly he was livin' there. But it was amazin' what an effect the night air had on his conversation works. Seemed to dry 'em up.
"Interested in antiques, are you?" says I, sort of folksy.
"Somewhat," says Clyde, steppin' out brisk.
"Odd line," says I. "Now, I could never see much percentage in havin' grandfathers' clocks and old spinning-wheels and such junk around."