I opened the door. Whitewell stood on the threshold. Slightly behind him was a boy who was quite obviously his son. There was the same high forehead, long, straight nose, well-shaped mouth. The father’s eyes were keen with a slightly humorous twinkle. The boy’s were the same color, but didn’t have the keenness nor the twinkle. They looked as though the boy might be slogging his way through life without getting much pleasure out of it. Back of the boy was a man in the forties, bald, thick, competent, and built like a grizzly bear.
Whitewell said, “Philip, this is Donald Lam. Mr. Lam, my son, Philip Whitewell.”
The tall young man gave me an inclination of the head, extended his hand, gripped mine politely but without fervor. “Very pleased to meet you, I’m sure.”
“Won’t you come in?” I asked.
The father made quite a ceremony of it. “Mrs. Cool,” he said, “may I present my son, Philip. Philip, this is the woman I’ve been telling you about.”
Philip looked at her curiously for a moment before he bowed, and said, “Mrs. Cool, I’m very pleased to meet you. Father has been talking about you a lot.”
The thick man who seemed to have been forgotten, grinned, pushed a hand out to me, and said, “My name’s Endicott.”
“Lam,” I said.
We shook hands. Whitewell whirled, and said, “Oh, pardon me,” and then to Bertha, “And may I present Paul Endicott. He’s been with me for years. The real brains of the business. I only take in the profits and pay the income tax. Paul does the work.”
Endicott grinned, the good-natured grin of a man who is too healthy, big, and powerful to ever let anything bother him.