“Ah, Breen, old man! Come to anchor.” Here he moved back a chair an inch or two with his foot, and pushed his silver cigarette-case toward the newcomer.
“Thank you,” replied Jack. “I've just dropped in to look for Garry Minott. Has he been in?”
Biff was the bulletin-board of the Magnolia club. As he roomed upstairs, he could be found here at any hour of the day or night.
Biff did not reply at once; there was no use in hurrying—not about anything. Besides, the connection between Biff's ears and his brain was never very good. One had to ring him up several times before he answered.
Jack waited for an instant, and finding that the message was delayed in transmission, helped himself to one of Biff's “Specials”—bearing in gold letters his name “Brent Biffton” in full on the rice paper—dropped into the proffered chair and repeated the question:
“Have you seen Garry?”
“Yes—upstairs. Got a deck in the little room. Been there all afternoon. Might go up and butt in. Touch that bell before you go and say what.”
“No—I won't drink anything, if you don't mind. You heard about Garry's winning the prize?”
“No.” Biffton hadn't moved since he had elongated his foot in search of Jack's chair.
“Why Garry got first prize in his office. I went with him to the supper; he's with Holker Morris, you know.”