He sipped his beer and wondered about Mrs. Gerald Meldon, whose Park Avenue address he had decided to visit. Gerald Meldon was a name to conjure with in Wall Street. He was at one time the Boy Wonder of the mart. If he went for a stock, it signalled a rush of hangers-on. This had caused him to operate under pseudonyms, which the Saint considered having a touch of swank — a stock-market operator using phony names. If Meldon were known to be dumping a stock, this was another signal. Everybody who could get hold of the information, dumped his. The stock usually went down.
It had been Gerald Meldon, the son — obviously — of a rich father, who had made collegiate history by dressing in white coveralls, driving along Fifth Avenue, and stealing all the street lamp bulbs one afternoon. It had been Gerald Meldon who had been chosen by Grantland Rice as All-American tackle from Harvard, accent and all.
The Saint knew nothing of Mrs. Gerald Meldon, but he could understand that reasons might exist why she should seek psychiatric help from Dr. Z. Well, he would see what he would see.
It was easy enough to find Meldon's address in the directory, and after breakfast that was what he did.
When he and Avalon arrived there later — she was now in a tailored suit of tan gabardine — the first thing he saw caused him to clutch her arm.
"Sorry," he muttered, "but my eyes have suddenly gone back on me."
She put a hand on his. Her dark eyes clouded.
"What is it, darling?"
"I'm seeing things. It must have been the beer."
She followed his gaze.