“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 bulldogs …”
“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?”
“This is Eighteen East Fifty-seventh Street,” conceded the other cautiously.
“I’ve got his letter here.” She opened her bag, and gave an exclamation of dismay. “It’s gone!”
“Mr Sipperley used to have a friend staying with him last Fall. A Mr Robertson. Dark-complected man with a mustache.”
“I took it out to look at the address, and I was sure I put it back. I must have dropped it.”