“Here Mr. Gladwin now.”
“How do you know that Bateato?” quizzed the young man absently, his attention being gripped by a stunning aphrodite rising from the sea in a glory of nudity and rainbows.
The Jap paused a second on his way to the door, and replied:
“’Cause no one know he home but Mr. Barnes. Thees house close up much long time and Mr. Gladwin make papers say he in Egypt.”
In the same breath in which he maximed this volley of words the little Jap projectiled himself from the room.
“His deductions are marvellous,” said Whitney Barnes, solemnly addressing a bronze bust of Philip of Macedon. He turned in time to meet the brisk entrance of Travers Gladwin, alias Thomas Smith of the Ritz.
The two shook hands warmly and looked into each other’s faces with quizzical smiles. They were about of an age, both unusually good looking and bearing themselves with that breezy, confident manner that is characteristic of young men who have been coddled in swan’s-down all their lives.
“Well, well, well, Travers!”
“Hello, Whitney, old boy!”