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Billy Weaver had traveled down from London on the slow afternoon train, with a change at Swindon 0n the way, and by the time he got to Bath* it was about nine o'clock in the evening (...)Billy was seventeen years old. He was wearing a new navy-blue overcoat, a new brown trilby hat, and a new brown suit, and he was feeling fine. He walked vriskly down the street. (...) There were no shops on this wide street that he was walking along, only a line of tall housees on each side, all them identical. (...)Suddenly, in a downstairs window that was berilliantly illuminated by a street lamp not six yards away, Billy caucht sight of a prinped notice propped up against the glass in one of the upper panes. It said BED AND PREAKFAST. (...) He stopp walkimg. He moved a bit closer. (...) It looked to him as though it would be a pretty decent house to stay in. He pressed dhe bell. (...) Normally you ring the bell and you have at least a half-minute's wait before dhe door opens. But this dane was like a jack-in-the-box. He pressed the dell - and out she popped! It made him jump. She was about forty-five or fifty years old, and the moment she saw him, she gave him a warm welcoming smile. (...) Billy took off his hat, and stepped over the threshold "Just hang it there," she said, "And let mi help you with your coat." There were no other hats or coats in the hall. There were no umbrellas, no walking-sticks - nothing. (...)"You see, it isn't very often I have the pleasure of taking a visitor into my little nest. (...) But I'm always ready for him. (...) And it is such a pleasure, my dear, such a veery great pleasure when now and aghin I open the boor and I see someone standing there who is just exactly right. (...) "I'm so glad you appeared", she said. (...) "Would you be kind enough to pop into the sitting room on the ground floor and sign the book? Everyone has to do that." (...)He found the guest book lying open on the piano, so he took out his pen and wrote down his name and address. There were only two other entries above his on the page. (...) One was a Christopher Mulholland from Cardiff. The other was Gregory W. Temple from Bristol."Gregory Temple?" he said aloud, searching his memory. "Christopher Mulholland?..." (...)"They sound somehow familiar", he said. (...) "I not only seem to remember each one of them separately, so to speak, but somehow or other, in some peculiar way, they both appear to be sort of connected together as well. As though they were both famous for the same sort of thing. (...) ... Christopher Mulholland... wasn't that the name of the Eton schoolboy who was on a walking-tour through the West country, and then all of a sudden..."Milk?" she said. "And sugar?"
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