With a quick flick of his hand he scattered a top dressing of important-looking papers about the table and was bending over these with a thoughtful frown when the door opened.
At the sight of his visitor he relaxed the preoccupied austerity of his demeanour. The new-comer was a girl in the middle twenties, of bold but at the moment rather sullen good looks. She had the bright hazel eyes which seldom go with a meek and contrite heart. Her colouring was vivid, and in the light from the window her hair gleamed with a sheen that was slightly metallic.
“Why, hello, Dolly,” said Mr. Twist.
“Hello,” said the girl moodily.
“Haven’t seen you for a year, Dolly. Never knew you were this side at all. Take a seat.”
The visitor took a seat.
“For the love of pop, Chimp,” she said, eying him with a languid curiosity, “where did you get the fungus?”
Mr. Twist moved in candid circles, and the soubriquet Chimp—short for Chimpanzee—by which he was known not only to his intimates but to police officials in America who would have liked to become more intimate than they were, had been bestowed upon him at an early stage of his career in recognition of a certain simian trend which critics affected to see in the arrangement of his features.
“Looks good, don’t you think?” he said, stroking his moustache fondly. It and money were the only things he loved.
“Anything you say. And I suppose, when you know you may be in the coop any moment, you like to have all the hair you can while you can.”