“Miles Hugo,” the poor majestic-looking fellow almost sobbed it. “Where am I? What is the name of this place?”
“It’s Temple Barholm, in the county of Lancashire, England. Hold on to that, too—like thunder!”
Strangeways held the young man’s arm with hands that clutched. He dragged at him. His nightmare held him yet; Tembarom saw it, but flashes of light were blinding him.
“Who,” he pleaded in a shaking and hollow whisper, “are you?”
Here was a stumper, by jingo! and not a minute to think it out. But the answer came all right.
“My name’s Tembarom. T. Tembarom.” And he grinned his splendid grin from sheer sense of relief. “I’m a New Yorker—Brooklyn. I was just forked in here anyhow. Don’t you waste time thinking over me. You sit down here and do your durndest with Miles Hugo.”
CHAPTER XXXIV
TEMBAROM did not look as though he had slept particularly well, Miss Alicia thought, when they met the next morning; but when she asked him whether he had been disappointed in his last night’s experiment, he answered that he had not. The experiment had come out all right, but Strangeways had been a good deal worked up, and had not been able to sleep until daylight. Sir Ormsby Galloway was to arrive in the afternoon, and he’d probably give him something quieting. “Had the coming down-stairs seemed to help him to recall anything?” Miss Alicia naturally inquired. Tembarom thought it had. He drove to Stone Hover and spent the morning with the duke; he even lunched with him. He returned in time to receive Sir Ormsby Galloway, however, and until that great personage left, they were together in Mr. Strangeways’ rooms.
“I guess I shall get him up to London to the place where Sir Ormsby wants him,” he said rather nervously, after dinner. “I’m not going to miss any chances. If he’ll go, I can get him away quietly some time when I can fix it so there’s no one about to worry him.”