"I wasn't worried," Toffee said absently.
They proceeded to the desk and were instantly greeted by a clerk of a precise black-and-white perfection. Though the man was shorter than Marc he still seemed to look down on him from a great height.
"Yes?" he asked with a slight reptilian hiss.
Marc had prepared his story in advance. "I'd like a suite for my niece," he said.
The clerk regarded Marc's "niece" and her costume and notched up the last small measure of slack in his eyebrows.
"I'm Marc Pillsworth," Marc said hopefully, "of the Pillsworth Advertising Agency."
The clerk regarded Marc with a cool steadiness that indicated all too plainly that anyone engaged in advertising, in the opinion of the Wynant, was nothing more than a not-so-high-class ballyhoo artist. Then he glanced down at the polished surface of the counter As though expecting to see three shells and a pea suddenly appear there.
"And your niece's luggage?" he asked.
"My niece was in an accident," Marc said quickly. "Her luggage was lost, burned. She's in town to replace the things that were destroyed."