“I intend to; that is, if I can otherwise earn a decent livelihood. I’ve had five years of the living-ghost world and I want to get clear of its grind and live things for awhile.”
“So—that is it? Quite natural too.” Mr. Daly seemed to be feeling his way, syllable by syllable. “Do you know, it is almost providential that you should have come in here at this moment, Mr. Hammond.”
“Yes?”
“It’s this way—you see: I just a few moments ago left a party who is privately seeking the services of a man of your particular type—and he wants him right away.”
“A newspaper publisher?” wryly.
“No—no, not a publisher. By George, I’ll bring him here to meet you. What do you say?”
“Hold on,” exclaimed Hammond detaining him. “What is the job and who is the man?”
“Your first question I cannot answer, because I do not definitely know myself,” replied the American consul. “But you have just hinted to me that you would like to play a part in big things, and if there’s one man on the continent who holds that opportunity for you in the hollow of his hand it is Norman T. Gildersleeve.”
The little grey man stood in the green-curtained entrance of the smoker, an expectant twinkle in his grey eyes. “What do you say?” he reiterated.
“Go ahead,” agreed Hammond. “There can be no harm in meeting him anyway.”