from fifth to twenty-ninth—in one of the nursin'-homes in Queen Anne Street—speakin' strictly, No. 1003—there was a man bein' operated on by Sir Jenkin Totteridge for an affection of the middle ear. This chap was called Mason. You went to see him several times. Who was Mason?"
Kimball stared at him with singular intensity. Then he swung half round in his chair with one of his characteristic jerky movements, and pulled out his snuff-box. He took a pinch. "You've found a mare's nest," he said, with a laugh, and took another pinch.
As he spoke, Reggie sprang up with some vehemence, bumping into his arm. "Sorry—sorry. A mare's nest, you say? Now what exactly do you mean by that?"
Kimball stood up too. "I mean you're wasting my time," he said.
"That isn't what I should call an explanation," Reggie murmured. "For instance, do you mean you didn't go to see Mason?"
"Don't let's have any more of this damned trifling," Kimball cried. "Certainly I went to see Mason."
"Good! Who is he?"
"Jack Mason is a fellow I knew in my early days. I went up and he didn't. I've seen little of him this ten years. When he had that operation, poor chap, he wrote to me, and I went to see him for the sake
