His light mustache was twisted up at the ends, and his plaid suit and overcoat would attract attention anywhere, and its owner be set down for an imitator of the English snob.
Entering the carriage which was in waiting, they were rapidly driven to the address given by Louise Calhoun.
Before they went into the house, Nick told his companion to agree to anything that might be proposed, and she promised to follow his instructions.
“Remember,” he whispered, as they went upstairs to the flat occupied by Louise Calhoun, “that what you are doing is for your father, and have courage.”
Louise was alone, her friend had not yet arrived—he was at that moment in the back room, puffing away at a cigarette.
Nick was introduced as Mr. Deming, and the hostess was most gracious to him.
“You are English, I should judge from your accent, Mr. Deming?” she said, and he answered in the affirmative.
She had been in England, traveled on the Continent, in fact, nearly all over the globe, and if she had not been born an American she would have liked to be English, and in such style she rattled on for some time.
“I think I hear Mr. Greer’s step on the stairs.”
Louise opened the door, crying: