CHAPTER III.—STATISTICAL.
MONDAY morning Arthur entered Peixada’s warehouse promptly as the clock struck ten. Peixada had not yet got down.
Arthur was conducted by a dapper little salesman to an inclosure fenced off at the rear of the showroom, and bidden to “make himself at home.” By and by, to kill time, he picked up a directory—the only literature in sight—and extracted what amusement he could from it, by hunting out the names of famous people—statesmen, financiers, etc. The celebrities exhausted, he turned to his own name and to those of his friends. Among others, he looked for Hart. Of Harts there were a multitude, but of G. Harts only three—a Gustav, a Gerson, and a George. George was written down a laborer, Gerson a peddler, Gustav a barber; none, it was obvious, could be the G. Hart of Beekman Place. In about half an hour Peixada arrived.
“Ah, good morning,” he said briskly. “Well?”
“I am sorry to bother you so soon again, Mr. Peixada,” said Arthur, stiffly; “but——”
“Oh, that’s all right,” Peixada interrupted. “Glad to see you. Sit down. Smoke a cigar.”
“Then,” pursued Arthur, his cigar afire, “having thought the matter well over——”
“You have concluded—?”
“That your view of the case was correct—that we’re in for a long, expensive, and delicate piece of business.”