“I’m looking for my husband.”
“What did you say, lady?” The man stopped in his work of sorting papers.
“I’m looking for my husband. He’s been waiting for me here for a long time—with a party—but he’s gone now. I thought perhaps he had left some message here with you.”
“What kind of looking man was he?” asked the news clerk. He leaned forward companionably.
“He—he’s tall, and clean shaven, with a light overcoat, and blue eyes—and——” She groped around for some distinguishing characteristic to elicit a gleam of response—“a square chin—with a dimple in it.” She felt her own fatuousness. “You—you’d know him if you saw him.”
The clerk turned to a boy who had appeared behind the counter.
“Did you see a man with a light overcoat, and”—a spasm passed over his face—“and a dimple in his chin? Did he leave any message here?” Mrs. Gibbons felt hotly that he was laughing at her, although he looked impassive.
“Naw,” said the boy, “he didn’t leave no message with me.” He added on reflection, “I ain’t seen no one hanging ’round but a chunky feller with a black mustache.”
“He hasn’t seen any one but a stout man with a black mustache,” reported the clerk officially, while two pairs of eyes stared at her in a disconcerting manner.
“Good-evening, Mrs. Gibbons; is there anything we can do for you?”