"But you," I retorted impatiently, "are not a Jew!"
"I am not," said Talbot, "but I've often said I was. It's helped—lots of times. If I'd told you my name was Cohen, or Selmsky, or Meyer, instead of Craig Talbot, you'd have thought I was a Jew." He smiled and turned his face toward me. As though furnishing a description for the police, he began to enumerate:
"Hair, dark and curly; eyes, poppy; lips, full; nose, Roman or Hebraic, according to taste. Do you see?"
He shrugged his shoulders.
"But it didn't work," he concluded. "I picked the wrong Jew."
His face grew serious. "Do you suppose that Smedburg person has wirelessed that banker?"
I told him I was afraid he had already sent the message.
"And what will Meyer do?" he asked. "Will he drop it or make a fuss? What sort is he?"
Briefly I described Adolph Meyer. I explained him as the richest Hebrew in New York; given to charity, to philanthropy, to the betterment of his own race.
"Then maybe," cried Talbot hopefully, "he won't make a row, and my family won't hear of it!"