“Perhaps I’ve got two heads,” said Tommy gravely.
“Sho you have,” said Mr. Ryder. “Thatsh odd. Thatsh remarkable fac. Letsh have a cocktail. Prohibition—probishun—thatsh whatsh done me in. I guess I’m drunk—constootionally drunk. Cocktailsh—mixed ’em—Angel’s Kiss—that’s Marguerite—lovely creature, fon’ o’ me too. Horshes Neck, two Martinis—three Road to Ruinsh—no, roadshto roon—mixed ’em all—in a beer tankard. Bet me I wouldn’t—I shaid—to hell, I shayed—”
Tommy interrupted.
“That’s all right,” he said soothingly. “Now what about getting home?”
“No home to go to,” said Mr. Ryder sadly, and wept.
“What Hotel are you staying at?” asked Tommy.
“Can’t go home,” said Mr. Ryder. “Treasurehunt. Swell thing to do. She did it. Whitechapel—White heartsh, white headsh shorrow to the grave—”
“Never mind that,” said Tommy. “Where are you—”
But Mr. Ryder became suddenly dignified. He drew himself erect and attained a sudden miraculous command over his speech.
“Young man, I’m telling you. Margee took me. In her car. Treasure Hunting. Englisharishtocrashy all do it. Under the cobblestones. Five hundred poundsh. Solemn thought, ’tis solemn thought. I’m telling you, young man. You’ve been kind to me. I’ve got your welfare at heart, sir, at heart. We Americans—”
Tommy interrupted him this time with even less ceremony.
“What’s that you say? Mrs. Laidlaw took you in a car?”