“It looks like a rifle cartridge—one of those murderous steel-nosed bullet affairs,” said he.
“Something even more dangerous!” said I, thrusting it into my pocket. “Much more dangerous! Possibly you will believe that I am ungracious—rather odd as it were—not to mention its name.”
He shook his head. The mask of the polite student of percents had returned; he became formally polite.
“Not at all,” he answered, adjusting his black tie. “I had rather hoped you would stay to see my daughter.”
“Another crisis prevents,” I said, bowing at the door of my car. But the banker had turned his back.
“Where now, sir?” asked my chauffeur.
“The old Museum of Natural History.”
“All cobblestones in those streets, sir,” he said as we leaped forward again.
This was true. We fairly jounced our way to the old brownstone structure, which sat with such pathetic dignity on the square of discouraged grass, frowning at the surrounding tenements. The sign advertising the waxworks and “Collection of Criminology” still hung at the door of the lower floor.
“Tell me,” said I to the freckled girl who sold admissions, “is the Man with the Rolling Eye still here?”