though he really longed to buckle it about himself. Suddenly he noticed the initials "J. R."
"I thought your name was Ian, Rutter?"
"So it is, sir; but they used to call me Jan."
Heriot waited for a sigh, but the mouth that appealed to him was characteristically compressed. He sat a few moments on the foot of the bed. "Well, good-night, and a fair start to you, Jan! The matron will put out the gas at ten."
The lad mumbled something; the man looked back to nod, and saw him lying as he had found him, still clutching the list, only with his face as deep a colour as his arm.
"Have you come across any names you know?"
"One."
"Who's that?"
"He won't know me."
They were the sullen answers that had made a bad impression downstairs; but they were strangely uttered, and Rutter no longer lay still.
"He must have a name," said Heriot, coming back into the room.
No answer.
"I'm sorry you're ashamed of your friend," said Heriot, laughing.
"He's not my friend, and"
"I think that's very likely," put in Heriot, as the boy shut his lips once more. "What's in a name? The chances are that it's only a namesake after all."
He turned away without a sign of annoyance or of further interest in the matter. But another mumble from the bed intercepted him at the door.
"Name of Devereux," he made out.
"Devereux, eh?"
