"But what about her?" says I. "Where do you come in?"
"Once when I am in England," says he, "many years gone past, I know her. I learn that she is in New York. Well, I find myself in America too. I thought to see her. Why not? A glimpse, no more."
"Is it the style where you come from," says I, "to gumshoe around and peek in the windows to see old friends?"
"In my country," says he, "men do not—but then we have our own customs. I have explain. Now I may depart."
"Not so fast, old scout!" says I. "If it's so you're a friend of Lindy, she'll be wantin' to see you, and all we got to do is to step inside and call her down."
"But thanks," says he. "It is very kind. I will not trouble, however. It need not be."
"Needn't, eh?" says I. "Look here, Pasha So and So, you can't put over anything so thin on me! You're up to something or other. You sure look it. Anyway, I'm goin' to march you in and find out from Lindy herself whether she knows you or not. Understand?"
He sighs resigned. "Since you are a professor of fists, it must be so," says he. "But remark this, I do not make the request to see her, and—and you may say to her that it is Don Carlos who is here."
"Ah-ha!" says I. "Another pen name, eh? Don Carlos! Low Dago, or Hidalgo?"
"My father," says he, "was a Spanish gentleman of Hebrew origin. My mother was French."