“Mr. Cass, you know the bad when you see it—I do not. The reputation of my house must be like Caesar's ghost—above suspicion.”
He had said “ghost.” He had seen but two plays—“Hamlet” and “Julius Caesar,” and for that reason his dramatic inaccuracy may be excused.
So Mr. Cass became a moral sleuth, and woe betide an applicant for rooms, and occasional board, who could not produce unimpeachable references, and point to an unsullied record in the past.
Miss Dana's respectability and social standing had been abundantly vouched for, and her financial responsibility had been demonstrated by monthly payments in advance.
It was the first evening Quincy had been out since his illness.
“Is Miss Dana in?” asked Quincy as he presented his card to Mr. Cass.
“I am quite positive she is. I am strengthened in this belief by the fact that she had her supper sent up to her room. A fine specimen of womanhood, and a remarkable appetite for so lovely a creature.”
Quincy had an inclination to brain him with the telephone stand, but restrained his murderous impulse.
“Will you please send up my card?” was his interrogatory protest against further enumeration of Miss Dana's charms and gastronomic ability. “No need to do so, Mr. Sawyer,” for he had inspected the card carefully. “We have a private telephone in each room. Will you await her in the public parlour?”
“Hasn't she more than one room?”