McAuley. It was a voice he seemed to remember. It was the voice of Mr. Kirby.
"I asked them at home where you were," said the voice, "and they told me I should find you if I rang up Bolter's."
"Thank you," said Jimmy too loudly—but he had no cause for gratitude!
"I am talking from Ormeston," said the voice; "my name is Kirby."
Jimmy's mood began to change.
"I 've asked for six minutes," the voice went on, "but I may as well tell you at once. It's about that house you took—Greystones. Now, Mr. McAuley, in your own interests, would you be good enough to take the 10.15 from King's Cross. I 'll meet you at Ormeston Station."
The very brief heroic mood not unknown to the god Bacchus now rushed over Jimmy.
"Upon my word, sir!" he began. Then in the twinkling of an eye another mood—one of alarm—prompted him to add, "Is it anything really urgent?" And his third mood was panic.
Good Lord! He could imagine one or two terribly urgent things in connection with Greystones. What if old Brassington were lying there dead? What if he had exploded,
