She put down her embroidery and removed a long end of red silk thread which she had been carrying on the tip of her tongue.
“I should certainly say not!” she answered. “He’s all wore out. They couldn’t repair him any more.”
“The machine or the man?”
“Both,” said she. “But they weren’t much of an attraction. Of course there wasn’t supposed to be any man—only the machine—the automaticon they called it. But it didn’t make enough money the last year or two to pay the repairs. The old man that run it was a swell chessplayer. The old man got sick and the machine got broken. Both were about at the end of the rope. So he went away three weeks ago and the machine is stored in the cellar now.”
“Where did you say the old man lived?” I asked.
“I didn’t say. But I’ll write it down for you. It’s a scene-painting loft over by the river.”
She scribbled on a slip of paper, “J. Lecompte, 5 East India Place.”
“Thank you,” I said.
“Um-m. You can’t fool me,” said she. “You’re in the show business!”
This was a thrust of her curiosity, but I merely bowed and left her.