"Is this Mrs. Compton?" he inquired.
"Yeah—I'm Mrs. Compton. What do you want?" John Quincy was sorry she had spoken. For she was, obviously, one of those beauties so prevalent nowadays, the sort whom speech betrays. Her voice recalled the myna birds.
"My name is John Quincy Winterslip." He saw her start. "May I speak with you for a moment?"
"Sure you can. Come in." She led the way along a low narrow passage into a tiny living-room. A pasty-faced young man with stooped shoulders stood by a table, fondling a cocktail shaker.
"Steve," said the woman, "this is Mr. Winterslip. Mr. Leatherbee."
Mr. Leatherbee grunted. "Just in time for a little snifter," he remarked.
"No, thanks," John Quincy said. He saw Mrs. Compton take a smoking cigarette from an ash tray, start to convey it to her lips, then, evidently thinking better of it, crush it on the tray.
"Well," said Mr. Leatherbee, "your poison's ready, Arlene." He proffered a glass.
She shook her head, slightly annoyed. "No."
"No?" Mr. Leatherbee grinned. "The more for little Stevie." He lifted a glass. "Here's looking at you, Mr. Winterslip."