He pushed open the connecting door, and they entered the studio. Julie and a globular man in superfine raiment stood like ill-balanced caryatids in support of either end of the mantelpiece.
"I agree to everything," he was saying. "The leases shall be ready to-morrow."
The voice signaled some cell in Jean's brain. The face, which he turned immediately upon her, gave memory its instant clew, and she felt her skin go hot and cold under Peter Y. Satterlee's earnest gaze.
"Have you a double, Mrs. Atwood?" he asked, after a moment's idle discussion of the studio.
She tried to face him calmly.
"A double? I think not."
"Why?" demanded Julie.
Satterlee pursued his investigations with maddening care.
"It's a most extraordinary resemblance, particularly as to eyes," he said. "There was a young woman, a dentist's wife, living in a Harlem apartment of ours—the Lorna Doone, it was—who might be Mrs. Atwood's twin. You didn't marry a widow, sir?" he broke off jocularly.
Atwood laughingly shook his head.