"Well, Mr. Athol Meldrum, good-day."
His voice was cold, his manner galling in its indifference, and a sudden anger glowed in me.
"Hold on," I said; "just a moment. You can very easily do me an immense favour. Listen to me."
"Well, what do you want," he demanded roughly; "work?"
"No," I said, "I just want a scrap of information. I came into the country with some Jews the name of Winklestein. I've lost track of them and I think you may be able to tell me where they are."
He was all attention now. He turned half round and scrutinised me with deliberate intensity. Then, like a flash, his rough manner changed. He was the polished gentleman, the San Francisco club-lounger, the man of the world.
He rasped the stubble on his chin; his eyes were bland, his voice smooth as cream.
"Winklestein," he echoed reflectively, "Winklestein; seems to me I do remember the name, but for the life of me I can't recall where."
He was watching me like a cat, and pretending to think hard.
"Was there a girl with them?"