"My name is Dodd," I resumed.
"Yes," said he, "so Madame Siron told me."
"Dodd, of San Francisco," I continued. "Late of
Pinkerton and Dodd."
"Montana Block, I think?" said he.
"The same," said I.
Neither of us looked at each other; but I could see his
hand deliberately making bread pills.
"That's a nice thing of yours," I pursued, "that panel.
The foreground is a little clayey, perhaps, but the
lagoon is excellent."
"You ought to know," said he.
"Yes," returned I, "I'm rather a good judge of--that
panel."
There was a considerable pause.
"You know a man by the name of Bellairs, don't you?" he
resumed.
"Ah!" cried I, "you have heard from Doctor Urquart?"
"This very morning," he replied.
"Well, there is no hurry about Bellairs," said I.
"It's rather a long story, and rather a silly one. But
I think we have a good deal to tell each other, and
perhaps we had better wait till we are more alone."
"I think so," said he. "Not that any of these fellows
know English, but we'll be more comfortable over at my
place.--Your health, Dodd.
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