It was common rumor that Quair did his brilliant work only when “soused.” And he never appeared to be perfectly sober, even when he was.
Graylock received them in his office—a big, reckless-eyed, handsome man, with Broad Street written all over him and “danger” etched in every deepened line of his face.
“Well, how about that business of mine?” he inquired. “It’s all right to keep me waiting, of course, while you and Quair here match for highballs at the Ritz.”
“I had to see Drene—that’s why we are late,” explained Guilder. “We’re ready to go ahead and let your contracts for you—”
“Drene?” interrupted Graylock, looking straight at Guilder with a curious and staring intensity. “Why drag Drene into an excuse?”
“Because we went to his studio,” said Guilder. “Now about letting the contracts—”
“Were you at Drene’s studio?”
“Yes. He’s doing the groups for the new opera for us.”
Quair, watching Graylock, was seized with a malicious impulse:
“Neat little skirt he has up there—that White girl,” he remarked, seating himself on Graylock’s polished table.