When they were at last in the outer room Stark murmured a few words in a low tone to the little man.
“Yes, Mr. Stark! With pleasure!” the little man exclaimed. “A fine skin.”
“It had better be!” said Stark. “You might fool the Queen of England but you can’t fool the silver-fox king.”
“No, and I vouldn’t even try,” said the little man. “Vait!”
He stepped across the room to say a few words to a girl at a desk. She hurried away to return a few minutes later with a small, paper-wrapped package.
“Well!” Stark boomed when they were once more on the street. “You have seen the world’s finest collection of fox skins. How would you like to see a thousand beautiful ladies all dolled up in them and walking down that Boulevard of yours?”
“That would be swell,” said Jimmie. Truth was, he had scarcely heard, for of a sudden the street with its low, old-fashioned brick business structures, had become hauntingly familiar to him. He had a feeling that he had been there before. But when? And why? For the life of him he could not recall.
“I feel as if I should know,” he told himself. “As if it were tremendously important that I should know. And yet——”
Wrack his brain as he might, he found no answer to this question. And so they drove away.
“Well, good luck, son,” Harm Stark said as they left the taxi, at the news building. “I’ll be hobbling along.”