As a matter of fact, now he came to think of it, he
wasn’t at all sure that the second name didn’t have almost
as much of a familiar ring about it as the first.
“Gregory Temple?” he said aloud, searching his memory.
“Christopher Mulholland? . . .”
“Such charming boys,” a voice behind him answered,
and he turned and saw his landlady sailing into the room
with a large silver tea tray in her hands. She was holding it
well out in front of her, and rather high up, as though the
tray were a pair of reins on a frisky horse.
“They sound somehow familiar,” he said.
“They do? How interesting.”
“I’m almost positive I’ve heard those names before
somewhere. Isn’t that odd? Maybe it was in the newspapers.
They weren’t famous in any way, were they? I mean famous
cricketers10 or footballers or something like that?”
“Famous,” she said, setting the tea tray down on the low
table in front of the sofa. “Oh no, I don’t think they were
famous. But they were incredibly handsome, both of them,
I can promise you that. They were tall and young and
handsome, my dear, just exactly like you.”
Once more, Billy glanced down at the book. “Look
here,” he said, noticing the dates. “This last entry is over
two years old.”
“It is?”
“Yes, indeed. And Christopher Mulholland’s is nearly
a year before that—more than three years ago.”
“Dear me,” she said, shaking her head and heaving a
dainty little sigh. “I would never have thought it. How time
does fly away from us all, doesn’t it, Mr.Wilkins?”
“It’s Weaver,” Billy said. “W-e-a-v-e-r.”