“Haven’t the time. It’s Saturday afternoon, and this office is supposed to be closed at one o’clock.”
“So it is Saturday—I’d almost forgotten the fact.”
The stenographer eyed him very sourly and observed coldly:
“Where do you keep yourself that you don’t know the day of the week? Go home, young man, and think it over.”
Brainard saw that in this national game of “josh” he could make no progress against such an adept and came bluntly to the point:
“Are you in charge of Mr. Krutzmacht’s office?”
“What’s that to you?”
“Because I’ve been sent here by Mr. Krutzmacht to—”
“Sent here by Mr. Krutzmacht—the one you were asking for just now? . . . Try something else, sonny.”
Brainard felt foolish and completely baffled. He wanted to strangle the woman and throw her out of the window. But aside from the fact that she appeared to be vigorous and of a fighting disposition he realized that the less disturbance he made the greater chance he would have of carrying through his mission successfully. It is not clear what the outcome between the two would have been, if at that moment there had not appeared from the inner office an elderly man whose mild face had a worried look. Brainard noted the man’s near-sighted, timid air and regained his calm.