So natural was her tone and so convincing her air of good-natured derision that Anton turned, hesitating, while one hand rested on the golf bag. Then, as before, he ran the fingers of his other hand through his mane of hair and clasped the back of his head in perplexity. It must have been this characteristic attitude that brought the flash of memory.
"Ah!" cried Hester, in sudden inspiration. "Now I know where I saw you."
The thrill of exultation in her voice convinced the wavering chauffeur and he came toward her in alarm, leaving the golf bag.
"Where?" he demanded.
She half closed her eyes as if looking at a distant picture.
"In a rathskeller—on Forty-second Street—near Broadway—one night," she answered in broken sentences.
"Well?"
"You were sitting at a table with a man who looked like a Tenderloin sport or—a Bowery tough. He had a blue handkerchief around his head—so. He had lost a piece of his ear."
Anton listened, fascinated.
"How do you know he had?"