“Mr. Carter?”
Nick dropped his pen, whirled around in his chair, and got up.
He saw before him a man of forty, or thereabouts, tall, muscular, smooth shaven and wearing a long frock coat, dark trousers, patent leather shoes and a flowing necktie.
In his left hand he held a black “slouch” hat. His right hand was extended and an amiable smile wreathed his face.
Nick took the extended hand, and was surprised to find the palm hard, as though roughened with manual labor.
For a “promoter,” dressed as this man was, the fact might have been significant.
“What can I do for you, Mr. Yasmar?” asked Nick, when they were both seated.
“I have a case, and there is no one in the city, except yourself, whom I desire to handle it.”
“Excuse me a moment while I finish this letter, and then I will give you my attention.”
Yasmar nodded, picked up the paper Nick had recently laid down, and the detective touched a bell.