“Paul Prescott—Artist.”
He knew the name—the owner had quite a reputation as a painter, but Eric had never as yet heard of him as a lady killer.
His next work was to get some information concerning Mr. Prescott.
There were other offices below, and entering one which seemed to be that of an ivory carver, he introduced the subject by saying that he had occasion to make use of an artist at his home, and wished to make certain inquiries concerning the gentleman above.
“I do not like to say anything,” remarked the ivory carver.
“Oh, I’m not going to ask about his work—that stands on its own merits—but as he would have to be a member of my family for a time if he undertook the job, I would like to know if he is a perfect gentleman.”
“I have no occasion to believe otherwise.”
“Married?”
“N—no.”
“You seem to hesitate—am I to infer that you have any reason to believe otherwise?”