'Mr Blenkiron?' I asked.

'You have my name, Sir,' he said. 'Mr John Scantlebury
Blenkiron. I would wish you good morning if I saw anything
good in this darned British weather.'

'I come from Sir Walter Bullivant,' I said, speaking low.

'So?' said he. 'Sir Walter is a very good friend of mine. Pleased
to meet you, Mr - or I guess it's Colonel -'

'Hannay,' I said; 'Major Hannay.' I was wondering what this
sleepy Yankee could do to help me.

'Allow me to offer you luncheon, Major. Here, waiter, bring the
carte. I regret that I cannot join you in sampling the efforts of the
management of this hotel. I suffer, Sir, from dyspepsia - duodenal
dyspepsia. It gets me two hours after a meal and gives me hell just
below the breast-bone. So I am obliged to adopt a diet. My
nourishment is fish, Sir, and boiled milk and a little dry toast.
It's a melancholy descent from the days when I could do justice to a
lunch at Sherry's and sup off oyster-crabs and devilled bones.' He
sighed from the depths of his capacious frame.

I ordered an omelette and a chop, and took another look at him.
The large eyes seemed to be gazing steadily at me without seeing
me. They were as vacant as an abstracted child's; but I had an
uncomfortable feeling that they saw more than mine.