“I met you—let me see—at an inquest in Hoxton some years ago; I saw you later at the police station.”
“You’re getting warmer. Now try the letter L.”
“And your name is Lincoln.”
“Bit more to the left.”
“Lancaster!”
“A bull’s-eye!” said the white-faced boy approvingly. “What’ll you ’ave, cigar or a cokernut?” He staggered a little and caught the back of the chair.
“You are a good guesser,” replied Bobbie, slipping to the chair. “I ’aven’t had a thing to eat for—for a day and a half.”
Myddleton West snatched a serviette from the drawer and spread it on the table in front of the boy. In another moment half a loaf of bread, a knuckle of ham, and cheese were on the serviette; in much less than another moment Bobbie had commenced.
“Excuse me wolfin’ me food,” said the boy with his mouth full. “Don’t suppose you know what it is to be famishing. I’ve had rather rough times the last few days.”