“I’ve often wondered,” ruminated Elk, “what people like you do their thinking with.”
“Now look here——!” began the lift-man indignantly.
“Look here,” retorted Elk, and at the sight of his badge the man grew more polite and more informative.
“She’s been here two months,” he said. “And, to tell you the truth, Mr. Elk, I’ve often wondered how she got a suite in Caverley House. They tell me she used to run a gambling joint on Jermyn Street. You haven’t come to raid her, have you?” he asked anxiously. “That’d get Caverley House a pretty bad name.”
“I’ve come to make a friendly call,” said Elk carefully.
“That’s the door.” The man stepped out of the lift and pointed to one of the two sober mahogany doors on the landing. “This other flat belongs to an American millionaire.”
“Is there such a thing?” asked Elk.
He was about to say something more when the lift-man walked to the door and peered at one of its polished panels.
“That’s queer,” he said. “What do you make of this?”
Elk joined him, and at a glance saw and understood.