Mason chuckled. “It’s a secret.”
The telephone rang.
Della Street picked up the receiver, received a message from the desk, and said, “Oscar’s downstairs. He wants to see you.”
“Oscar?” Mason asked.
She nodded. “Remember, the chap who waited on our table.”
Mason said, “Oh, yes. Go on out and talk with him, Della. If he’s broke and wants a loan, give him twenty-five bucks and my compliments. If he has some information, bring him in.”
Della Street glided from the room. Mason started pacing the floor, his head bowed in thought, hands thrust deep in his trouser pockets.
After a few moments, he paused by the window, stared moodily at the rivulets of rain which made patterns down the windowpane. He turned as a door opened and Della Street escorted the table steward into the room.
“Hello, Oscar,” Mason said.
Smiles wreathed the man’s face. “Good morning, Mr. Mason. I don’t want to take up much of your time. I just wanted to run in and speak to you for a minute. You were so nice to me on the ship that I thought... Well, I thought perhaps I could help you.”