“Easy of access, pay dirt from the grass roots, and a cinch to save,” he was writing, when a knock upon the door interrupted him.
“Come in!” He scowled at the uniformed intruder.
“A card, sir.” It was Miss Dunbar’s, of the Evening Dispatch.
“What the dickens!” Mr. Sprudell looked puzzled. “Ah yes, of course!” For a second, an instant merely, Mr. Sprudell had quite forgotten that he was a hero.
“These people will find you out.” His tone was bored. “Tell her I’ll be down presently.”
When the door closed, he walked to the glass.
He twitched at his crimson neck scarf and whisked his pearl-gray spats; he made a pass or two with his military brushes at his cherished part, and took his violets from a glass of water to squeeze them dry on a towel. While he adjusted his boutonnière, he gazed at his smiling image and twisted his neck to look for wrinkles in his coat. “T. Victor Sprudell, Wealthy Sportsman and Hero, Reluctantly Consents to Be Interviewed” was a headline which occurred to him as he went down in the elevator.
The girl from the Dispatch awaited him in the parlor. Mr. Sprudell’s genial countenance glowed as he advanced with outstretched hand.
Miss Dunbar noted that the hand was warm and soft and chubby; nor was this dapper, middle-aged beau exactly the man she had pictured as the hero of a thrilling rescue. He looked too self-satisfied and fat.
“Now what can I do for you, my dear young lady?” Mr. Sprudell drew up a chair with amiable alacrity.