“‘What so proudly’--I never can remember any more.” “No one,” Sam reminded her, “knows the words but the Argentines....” “...And the Portuguese and the Greeks.” The lady beamed. “Say, don’t tell me you’re American too!” “My mother was.” “Why, this is fine! Pop’ll be tickled to death.” “Is your father coming here too?” “Well, I should say so! You don’t think I pay calls on strange gentlemen all by myself, do you?” said the lady archly. “But listen! If you’re American, we’re sitting pretty, because it’s only us Americans that’s got real sentiment in them. Ain’t it the truth?” “I don’t quite understand. Why do you want me to have sentiment?” “Pop’ll explain all that when he arrives. I’m surprised he hasn’t blown in yet. I didn’t think I’d get here first.” She looked about her. “It seems funny to think of pop as a little kiddy in this very room.” “Your father was English then?” “Born in England--born here--born in this very house. Just to think of pop playing all them childish games in this very room!” Sam began to wish that she would stop. Her conversation was beginning to give the place a queer feeling. The room had begun to seem haunted by a peculiar being of middle-aged face and juvenile costume. So much so that when she suddenly exclaimed, “There’s pop!” he had a momentary impression that a whiskered elder in Lord Fauntleroy clothes was about to dance out from behind the sofa. Then he saw that his visitor was looking out of the window and, following her gaze, noted upon the front steps a gentleman of majestic port. “I’ll go and let him in,” he said. “Do you live here all alone?” asked the lady, and Sam got the idea that she spoke eagerly. “Oh, no, I’ve a man. But he’s busy somewhere.” “I see,” she said disappointedly. The glimpse which Sam had caught of the new arrival through the window had been a sketchy one. It was only as he opened the door that he got a full view of him. And having done so, he was a little startled. It is always disconcerting to see a familiar face where one had expected a strange one. This was the man he had seen in the bar that day when he had met Hash in Fleet Street. “Mr. Shotter?” “Yes.” It seemed to Sam that the man had aged a good deal since he had seen him last. The fact was that Mr. Molloy, in greying himself up at the temples, had rather overdone the treatment. Still, though stricken in years, he looked a genial, kindly, honest soul. “My name is Gunn, Mr. Shotter--Thomas G. Gunn.” It had been Mr. Molloy’s intention--for he was an artist and liked to do a thing, as he said, properly--to adopt for this interview the pseudonym of J. Felkin Haggenbakker, that seeming to his critical view the sort of name a sentimental millionaire who had made a fortune in Pittsburgh and was now revisiting the home of his boyhood ought to have. The proposal had been vetoed by Dolly, who protested that she did not intend to spend hours of her time in unnecessary study. “Won’t you come in?” said Sam.