Barres ascended the two low, easy flights of stairs and unlocked his door. Aristocrates, setting the table 66 in the dining-room, approached gracefully and relieved his master of hat, coat, and stick.
Half an hour later, a bath and fresh linen keyed up his already lively spirits; he whistled while he tied his tie, took a critical look at himself, and, dropping both hands into the pockets of his dinner jacket, walked out into the big studio, which also was his living-room.
There was a piano there; he sat down and rattled off a rollicking air from the most recent spring production, beginning to realise that he was keyed up for something livelier than a solitary dinner at home.
His hands fell from the keys and he swung around on the piano stool and looked into the dining-room rather doubtfully.
“Aristocrates!” he called.
The tall pullman butler sauntered gracefully in.
Barres gave him a telephone number to call. Aristocrates returned presently with the information that the lady was not at home.
“All right. Try Amsterdam 6703. Ask for Miss Souval.”
But Miss Souval, also, was out.
Barres possessed a red-leather covered note-book; he went to his desk and got it; and under his direction Aristocrates called up several numbers, reporting adversely in every case.