“Been doing your Sunday shopping?” he asked innocently.
The man’s hawk-like face relaxed into a smile.
“I never eat on Sundays,” he said.
It was Joshua Broad, that rich American who peddled key-rings in Whitehall, lived in the most expensive flats in London, and found time to be intensely interested in Ezra Maitland.
He turned abruptly as Elk seated himself.
“Say, Elk, did you see the child?”
Elk shook his head.
“No,” he said, and heard the chuckle of his companion as the car moved toward the civilized west.
“Yes, I saw that baby,” said Mr. Broad, puffing gently at the cigar he had lit; “and, believe me, Elk, I’ve stopped loving children. Yes, sir. The education of the young means less than nothing to me for evermore.”
“Where was she?”