"You didn't know me?" he scowled. "What's that got to do with it?"
She leaned forward and patted his hand playfully. "Now don't you be cross, Anton. You know the little fat man with the brown derby hat?"
"No."
"Yes, you do. The one who does business for Henderson, the one who stutters."
"Never saw him."
"You didn't? Well, I saw him. The day after I came here he got hold of me at the lodge and—we had a walk and—he said there was a party named Henderson who wanted to get a line on Baxter's chauffeur—that's you—and—the end of it was I agreed to telephone 724 Chelsea every day."
"The devil you did!" Anton was so disturbed by this that he thrust both hands into his mane of black hair and sat silent.
A moment later an electric bell echoed through the house.
"Someone at the front door, some caller," muttered Anton. Then, looking at his watch. "I've got to get out of here. Young Baxter wants the car."
"And I must take this golf bag to Miss Thompson's room," she remembered.