“Well, why didn’t you ring up the apartment and find out?” he demanded.
She gave him a sullen look:
“Here’s his card,” she said, shoving it across the desk.
Barres picked up the card. “Georges Renoux, Architect,” he read. “Hotel Astor” was pencilled in the corner.
Barres knit his brows, trying to evoke in his memory a physiognomy to fit a name which seemed hazily familiar.
“Did the gentleman leave any message?” he asked.
“No.”
“Well, please don’t make another mistake of this kind,” he said.
She stared at him like a sulky sow, her little eyes red with malice.
“Where is Soane?” he inquired.