“You won’t make any mistake if you get those, sir,” affirmed the salesman, more affably. “I just sold a pair of those very shoes to Ted Courtney, not more than an hour ago.”
“And who the devil is Ted Courtney?” asked Mauney.
The clerk surveyed his customer blankly for a moment. “If you don’t know who the Courtneys are,” he mumbled, at length, “you don’t know much about Lockwood.”
“I’ll have to confess that I don’t,” admitted Mauney, with a chuckle to himself, “but these shoes suit me all right.”
He next entered a haberdashery shop and asked for shirts. The clerk was a smartly-dressed man of middle age.
“You don’t care for those,” he commented, as Mauney finished surveying some that were on display. “Well, we haven’t much choice left in the cheaper lines, but I can show you some in a very excellent material. This particular shirt,” he continued, as he selected an example, “is being worn by the best dressers this season. We have had difficulty keeping stocked in it. I may say that I sold a half-dozen of this line to Mr. Ted Courtney, only yesterday.”
Mauney’s hand fell limply on the counter as he began to laugh for no reason apparent to the serious-faced salesman.
“I wish you’d tell me who Ted Courtney is. I haven’t been able to decide as yet whether he is the Beau Nash of Lockwood or a cousin of the Prince of Wales.”
“You’re a stranger in town? Indeed. The Courtneys, of course, are among our wealthiest residents—awfully nice people, with whom it is always a pleasure to deal.”