"I might ha' stayed back," grumbled Peth, as they mounted the stoop of the deserted veranda.
"You lay a course for the bar while I brace the gent at the office," said Jarrow. "Don't have nothin' to say."
Mr. Peth measured the veranda with his long legs and disappeared into the bar, while Jarrow squeaked his way into the palms and velvet grandeur of the sala, waving away the boy who came to inquire about his baggage.
"Yes, sir," said Wilkins, rising from behind the railed desk.
"You got a man here named Locke," asserted Jarrow, seizing the railing as if to brace himself against a shock.
"Right-o," said Wilkins. "Name, please?" He reached for the room telephone.
Jarrow was taken aback at the thought of being so abruptly thrust before a stranger he could not see. He had no plan for a telephone conversation as preliminary to a meeting and was averse to having his name bandied about by the clerk.
"You can say," he suggested, "it's a friend of Captain Dinshaw's, who's come to have a word with him—strictly private."
Wilkins pressed a button, and after a few seconds announced: "Mr. Locke, there's a gentleman here to see you from Captain Dinshaw. He wants to speak to you privately."
"Put him on the wire," said Locke. "Hello! I guess you've got the wrong party."