Clyde Creighton was. Vee don't seem to know anything very
definite about him, outside of the Alicia incident; and it struck me
that if there was a prospect of havin' him in the fam'ly, as it were,
someone ought to see his credentials. Anyway, it wouldn't do any harm
to pump him a bit.
"Pardon me for changing my mind," says Clyde, as we hits the sidewalk,
"but I think I prefer to walk downtown."
"Just what I was goin' to spring on you," says I. "Fine evenin' for a
little thirty-block saunter, too. Let's see, the Plutoria's where
you're staying ain't it?"
"Why--er--yes," says he, hesitatin'.
I couldn't make out why he should choke over it, for I'd heard him say
distinctly he was livin' there. But it was amazin' what an effect the
night air had on his conversation works. Seemed to dry 'em up.
"Interested in antiques, are you?" says I, sort of folksy.
"Somewhat," says Clyde, steppin' out brisk.
"Odd line," says I. "Now, I could never see much percentage in havin'
grandfathers' clocks and old spinning-wheels and such junk around."
"Really," says he.
"One of your fads, I expect?" says I.
"M-m-m," says he.
"Shouldn't think you'd find room in a hotel for such stuff," I goes on,
doin' a hop-skip across a curb, "or do you have another joint, too?"
"Quite so," says he.
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