“Uh—yes.” He hastily glanced at the placard. “Mr. Fitzgerald. Say, I think I read some of that Rubaiyat. It was something about a Persian kitten—I don’t remember exactly.”
Dr. Mittyford walked bitterly to the other end of the room.
About eight in the evening Mr. Wrenn’s landlady knocked with, “There’s a gentleman below to see you, sir.”
“Me?” blurted Mr. Wrenn.
He galloped down-stairs, panting to himself that Morton had at last found him. He peered out and was overwhelmed by a motor-car, with Dr. Mittyford waiting in awesome fur coat, goggles, and gauntlets, centered in the car-lamplight that loomed in the shivery evening fog.
“Gee! just like a hero in a novel!” reflected Mr. Wrenn.
“Get on your things,” said the pedagogue. “I’m going to give you the time of your life.”
Mr. Wrenn obediently went up and put on his cap. He was excited, yet frightened and resentful at being “dragged into all this highbrow business” which he had resolutely been putting away the past two hours.
As he stole into the car Dr. Mittyford seemed comparatively human, remarking: “I feel bored this evening. I thought I would give you a nuit blanche. How would you like to go to the Red Unicorn at Brempton—one of the few untouched old inns?”
“That would be nice,” said Mr. Wrenn, unenthusiastically.