Mr. Twist felt a little wounded. He did not like badinage about his moustache. He did not like tactless allusions to the coop. And he was puzzled by the unwonted brusqueness of the girl’s manner. The Dora Gunn he had known had been a cheery soul, quite unlike this tight-lipped, sombre-eyed person now before him.
The girl was looking about her. She seemed perplexed.
“What’s all this?” she asked, pointing her parasol at the writing on the window.
Mr. Twist smiled indulgently and with a certain pride. He was, he flattered himself, a man of ideas, and this of presenting himself to the world as a private investigator he considered one of his happiest.
“Just camouflage,” he said. “Darned useful to have a label. Keeps people from asking questions.”
“It won’t keep me from asking questions. That’s what I’ve come for. Say, Chimp, can you tell the truth without straining a muscle?”
“You know me, Dolly.”
“Yes, that’s why I asked. Well, I’ve come to get you to tell me something. Nobody listening?”
“Not a soul.”
“How about the office boy?”