“Do you know any people of the name of Joyce?”
“Daniel Blake Joyce, of Gramercy Park?” asked Bertie.
“Yes.”
“I know him and his family intimately.”
The tweed-arrayed stranger jumped to his feet.
“I call this jolly. My name is O’Hara.”
“Not Tim O’Hara?”
“Yes, Tim.”
“Why, my dear sir,” cried Bertie, “I’ve heard the Joyces speak of you fifty times.”
“This is first-class. Have a card. You’ll come and stop with me a week, a month—six. I live in the County Wicklow.”