A particularly beautiful limousine stopped before the door of Welch, Boon & Shaw, the renowned jewelers, on Fifth Avenue. There alighted from it, on this cold but bright January day, a tall, well-built man, erect, square-shouldered, head held high. He wore a fur-lined overcoat with a beautiful mink collar, and a mink cap. He was one of those blond-mustached, ruddy-complexioned, daily-cold-plunge British officers you sometimes see in Ottawa. He walked quickly into the shop and spoke to the first clerk he saw.
“Where's the proprietor?”
“Who?”
“The proprietor of the shop!” He spoke with a pronounced English accent. His eyes were gray and cold. They looked a trifle close together, but that may have been from the frown—said frown impressing even a casual observer as a chronic affair. His appearance, even without the frown, was aristocratic.
“Do you wish,” said the clerk, politely, “to see Mr. Boon or Mr. Shaw?”
“I wish to see the man who owns this shop; the—ah—boss, I think you call it here.”
“Well, Mr. Boon—” began the clerk, about to explain.
“I don't care if it's Mr. Loon or Mr. Coon. Be quick, please!” he said, peremptorily.
The clerk, now resenting the stranger's words, tone, manner, attitude, nationality, and ancestry, turned to a floor-walker person and called:
“Mr. Smith, this—ahem—gentleman wishes to see one of the firm.”