“Perhaps we may meet again,” he said pleasantly. No. 7 fumbled in his vest pocket and brought forth a soiled business card.
“If you ever need anything in the way of electric fixtures or repairing, remember me, Mr. Sampson,” he said. “Telephone and address as per card. Keep it, please. I am in business for myself. The Trans-Continental Electric Supply Emporium.'
“Here's my card, Mr. Sampson,” said No. 12. “I'd like to come around and give you a little spiel on our new model some day soon. We're practically sold up as far as December, but I think I can sneak you in ahead—what say?”
“I have an automobile, thank you. Two of them, in fact.” He mentioned the make of car that he owned. No. 12 was not disheartened.
“You could have fifteen of our cars for the price you paid for yours—one for every other day in the month. Just bear that in mind. A brand new car every second day. Let me see: your address is—” He paused expectantly.
“The Harvard Club will reach me any time.”
No. 12 started to write it down but paused in the middle of “Harvard” to grasp the extended hand of his new friend. “I fancy you can remember it without writing it down,” went on Sampson, smilingly.
“Never trust to memory,” said No. 12 briskly. “This burg is full of clubs and—well, so long!”
No. 7 was still troubled about luncheon. “I'm sorry you can't go to the Vanderbilt and have a bite—a sandwich and a stein of beer, say.” No. 12 turned to speak to a passing acquaintance, and No. 7 seized the opportunity to whisper tensely: “She's staying there. I followed her three times and she always went to the Vanderbilt. Got off the Subway at Thirty-third Street and—”