"Ah, of course, naturally."
Her indifference, the absent‑minded answer reassured him. He did not notice that her whole figure had relaxed.
There was a faint tap on the door and the subdued secretary stood on the threshold. "It is half‑after four o'clock, mademoiselle, and your next client is waiting."
Hayden rose. "Time's up," he said. "But, señorita, when do you think the heirs will be ready to talk business?"
"I think I can promise you an interview within a very short time; and in the meanwhile I will communicate with you. Oh, by the way, in private and domestic life, my name is Carrothers, Ydo Carrothers. Y‑d‑o," spelling it, "pronounced Edo."
"Ydo," he exclaimed. "It is a name made in Spain; in color it is red and yellow, and it smells of jasmine."
"Yes." She laughed at his description. "The Romany strain again, you see."
"One moment," he insisted. "How did you know my traveler's tale? Was it Penfield?"
"Never mind. It is sufficient that I know it. Good‑by." She held out her hand. "You can't say I haven't told you a good fortune, can you?"
As Hayden passed through the narrow hall he saw sitting in the reception‑room the next client—the gray‑haired man with whom Marcia had dined that evening at the Gildersleeve. But a further surprise awaited him; for just as he reached the door leading from the apartment the rosy and smiling little maid was admitting Wilfred Ames. Hayden almost ran into him, and Ames, with a stare, muttered a surly recognition and passed on in.