"Nothing. I'm on the wrong scent, evidently, but you have saved me from wasting time. This Miss Eileen Garth is English, of course?"
"Yes, sir; very good-looking, but rather snappy."
Winter sighed.
"That just shows how easy it is to blunder," he said. "I'm looking for a Polish Jewess, whose chief feature is her nose, and who wears big gold earrings."
"Oh, Miss Garth is quite different," said the disappointed youth. "She's tall and slim—a regular dasher, big black hat, swell togs, black and white, and smart boots with white spats. She wore pearls in her ears, too, because I noticed 'em."
Winter sighed again.
"Another half day lost," he murmured, and went out.
Knowing well that the boy would note the direction he took, he turned away from the block of flats and made for Soho, where he smoked a thin, raffish Italian cigar with an Anarchist of his acquaintance who kept a restaurant famous for its risotto. Then, by other streets, he approached Gloucester Mansions, and soon was pressing the electric bell of No. Eleven.
"Miss Garth in?" he said to an elderly, hatchet-faced woman who opened the door.