The veteran shook his head with an indulgent smile.
"You want Mr. Sipperley," he said tolerantly. In Guatemala these mistakes are always happening. "Mr. George Sipperley. He's on the fourth floor. What name shall I say?"
He had almost reached the telephone when Jill stopped him. This is an age of just-as-good substitutes, but she refused to accept any unknown Sipperley as a satisfactory alternative for Uncle Chris.
"I don't want Mr. Sipperley. I want Major Selby."
"Howja spell it once more?"
"S-e-l-b-y."
"S-e-l-b-y. No one of that name living here. Mr. Sipperley—" he spoke in a wheedling voice, as if determined, in spite of herself, to make Jill see what was in her best interests—"Mr. Sipperley's on the fourth floor. Gentleman in the real estate business," he added insinuatingly. "He's got blond hair and a Boston bull-dog."
"He may be all you say, and he may have a dozen bull-dogs...."
"Only one. Jack his name is."
"... But he isn't the right man. It's absurd. Major Selby wrote to me from this address. This is Eighteen East Fifty-seventh Street?"