“No, but I’m introduced.”
“What’s your name?”
“Durfy.”
“Oh, you’re the man who was in the Rocket. I heard of you from a friend of mine. By the way,” and here his manner became quite civil, as a brilliant idea occurred to him, “look here, it was only my chaff about keeping the paper; you can have it. I’ll look at it afterwards.”
“All right, thanks,” said Durfy, who felt no excuse for not being civil too.
“By the way,” said Sam, as he was going off with the paper, “there was a fellow at your office, what was his name, now—Crowder, Crundell? Some name of that sort—I forget.”
“Cruden you mean, perhaps,” said Durfy, with a scowl.
“Ah, yes—Cruden. Is he still with you? What sort of chap is he?”
Durfy described him in terms far more forcible than affectionate, and added, “No, he’s not there now; oh no. I kicked him out long ago. But I’ve not done with him yet, my boy.”
Sam felt jubilant. Was ever luck like his? Here was a man who evidently knew Reginald’s real character, and could, doubtless, if properly handled, put him on the scent, and, as he metaphorically put it to himself, “give him a clean leg up over the job.”