“I’ll want it, also a description, also an introduction to Ogden Dearborne. You can telephone him and tell him I’ll be out. Ask him to tell me anything I want to know.”
Whitewell thought for a moment, then said, “Yes, I guess that will be the best way.”
“And the address of Helen Framley if you have it.”
“I’ll write that out for you.”
“Got that picture handy?”
He took two photographs from his inner pocket, and passed them over. One of them was a small-sized studio photograph of a girl with light hair, a slightly turned-up nose, and wistful eyes. The other was a snapshot. The shadows were pretty dark. The camera had been slightly out of focus, but it showed a girl on the beach in a bathing-suit. The camera had caught her just as she was reaching to throw a beach ball. She was laughing, and her mouth showed even rows of regular teeth. Her eyes were too shaded and blurred to give expression, but there was something in the poise of the figure the camera had caught, a dashing verve, a zest for life. Such a girl would never be quiescent, would never settle down. She was thoroughly volatile. She’d make mistakes as she went through life, but she’d keep moving.
I put the pictures in my pocket. “Don’t forget to call the Dearbornes and tell them that I’ll be out to see Ogden.”
“I could run you down there and—”
“No. I’d prefer to go by myself.”
“All right.”