This was the man—this short, square, round-faced individual with his minutely shaven face and slow greenish eyes, and his hair combed back and still reeking with perfumed tonic—this shiny, scented, and overgroomed sport with rings on his fat, blunt fingers and the silk 266 laces on his tan oxfords as fastidiously tied as though a valet had done it!
Ben Stull began to speak; and presently Neeland discovered that the fox-faced man’s name was Doc Curfoot; that he had just arrived from London on receipt of a telegram from them; and that they themselves had landed the night before from a transatlantic liner to await him here.
Doc Curfoot checked the conversation, which was becoming general now, saying that they’d better be very sure that the man opposite understood no English before they became careless.
“Musseer,” he added suavely to Neeland, who looked up with a polite smile, “parly voo Anglay?”
“Je parle Français, monsieur.”
“I get him,” said Stull, sourly. “I knew it anyway. He’s got the sissy manners of a Frenchy, even if he don’t look the part. No white man tips his lid to nobody except a swell skirt.”
“I seen two dudes do it to each other on Fifth Avenue,” remarked Curfoot, and spat from the window.
Brandes, imperturbable, rolled his cigar into the corner of his mouth and screwed his greenish eyes to narrow slits.
“You got our wire, Doc?”
“Why am I here if I didn’t!”