Bending over a desk telephone was the form of a tall, slender-shouldered man.
“Are—are you Roderick Vining?” she faltered, at the same time drawing “The Compleat Angler” half out of her pocket.
His only answer was to hold up one long, tapering finger as a signal for silence. Someone was speaking at the other end of the wire.
With burning cheeks and a whispered apology, the girl sank back into the shadows. Her courage faltered. This was her introduction to New York; she had made a faux pas as her first move; and this man, Roderick Vining, was no ordinary person, she could see that. There was time to study him now. His face was long, his features thin, but his forehead was high. He impressed her, seated though he was, as one who was habitually in a hurry. Pressing matters were, without doubt, constantly upon his mind.
Now he was speaking. She could not avoid hearing what he was saying without leaving the alcove, and he had not requested her to do that.
“Why, yes, Mrs. Nelson,” he was saying, “we can get the set for you. Of course you understand that is a very special, de luxe edition; only three hundred sets struck off, then the plates destroyed. The cost would be considerable.”
Again he pressed the receiver to his ear.
“Why, I should say, three thousand dollars; not less, certainly. All right, madam, I will order the set at once. Your address? Yes, certainly, I have it. Thank you. Good-bye.”
He placed the receiver on its hook with as little noise as if it had been padded, then turned to Lucile. “Pardon me; you wanted to see me? Sorry to keep you waiting.”
“Frank Morrow sent me here to ask you where you purchased this book.” She held the thin volume out for his inspection.