“Hang it! I may as well tell you at once. Snowdon is my own name.”
“Indeed? And how am I to be sure of that?”
“Come and see me where I’m living, in Clerkenwell Close, and then make inquiries of my father, in Hanover Street, Islington. There’s no reason now for keeping up the old name,—a little affair,—all put right. But the fact is, I’d as soon find out what this business is with your ofhce without my father knowing. I have reasons; shouldn’t mind talking them over with you, if you can give me the information I want.”
“I can do that,” replied Scawthorne with a smile. "If you are J. J. Snowdon, you are requested to communicate with Michael Snowdon,—that’s all,”
“Oh! but I have communicated with him, and he’s nothing particular to say to me, as far as I can see.”
Scawthorne sipped at his glass, gave a stroke to each side of his moustache, and seemed to reflect.
