“Oh. I heard you. It cannot. The line stands, Mrs. Lamont. You know that.”
“I know. Mrs. Frost wants it.”
McNair straightened up. “Mrs. Frost? Is she here?”
The woman nodded. “She’s ordering. I told her you were engaged. She’s taking two of the Portsmouth ensembles.”
“Oh. She is.” McNair had suddenly stopped fidgeting, and his voice, though still thin, sounded more under command. “I want to see her. Ask if it will suit her convenience to wait till I’m through here.”
“And the 1241 in two shades of shetland—”
“Yes. Of course. Add fifty dollars.”
The woman nodded, excused herself again, and departed.
McNair glanced at his wrist watch, shot a sharp one at young Frost, and looked at Wolfe. “You can still have ten minutes.”
Wolfe shook his head. “I won’t need them. You’re nervous, Mr. McNair. You’re upset.”