Mason bowed, said, “I’ve had that pleasure. Good evening, Miss Dail,” and dropped into a chair. He had not as yet dressed for dinner, and his double-breasted suit of tropical worsted, opposed to the formality of the other’s attire, served as a reminder that his call was a business one, made his approach seem direct and aggressive.
He glanced casually about him at the furnishings of the palatial suite, stretched out his legs in front of him, crossed his ankles and said, “You’re the president of the Products Refining Company.”
Dail nodded.
“You have a man in your employ by the name of C. Waker Moar,” Mason went on.
Dail’s face became an expressionless mask. “I’m not familiar with all of the employees of the Products Refining Company,” he said.
Mason regarded him with steady, patient eyes. “I didn’t ask you that,” he said. “I have reason to believe that the name of C. Waker Moar may have impressed itself upon your mind during the last few weeks.”
Dail gave no faint flicker of expression. “What was it you wished to see me about?” he asked.
Mason glanced at Celinda Dail. “If you were planning to go in for cocktails,” he said, “and it’s not convenient to discuss the matter now, I can see you some time after dinner.”
“That’s all right,” Dail said. “You can trust to my daughter’s discretion. What did you wish to say?”
“I understand,” Mason said, “there’s a substantial cash shortage in your company, Mr. Dail, a matter of some twenty-five thousand dollars, and this shortage was, well, shall we say coincident with the departure of Mr. Moar from your employ?”