"Alan Grant!" she said, smiling at him. "Is this business or pleasure?"
"Both. Do me a favor. Don't tell these people who I am. Just talk as you were talking before I came. And if you can get rid of them fairly soon, I'd like to talk to you alone for a little."
"I'd do a lot more than that for you. Every time I tie these around my neck," she indicated a rope of pearls, "I remember you."
This was not because Grant had given her the pearls but because he had once recovered them for her.
"Come and meet the others. Who is your friend?"
"Not a friend. Hopkins of the Clarion."
"Oh. Now I understand Lydia's welcome. And they say professional people are publicity hounds!" She led Grant in, introduced people as they came. The first was Clement Clements, the society photographer, radiant in purple «tails» and a soft shirt of a pale butter color. He had never heard of an Alan Grant, and made it perfectly clear. The second was a Captain Somebody, a nondescript and humble follower of Marta's, who clung to his glass of whisky and soda as being the only familiar object in an unknown terrain. The third was Judy Sellers, a sulky fair girl who played «dumb» blondes from year's end to year's end, and whose life was one long fight between her greed and her weight. And the fourth was that intimate of the stars, Miss Lydia Keats, who was now talking all over Jammy Hopkins and enjoying herself immensely.
" Mr. Grant?" Jammy said, nastily, as Grant was introduced.
" Isn't it 'Mr. ?" Lydia asked, her ears pricked, her eyes snapping with curiosity. "No, it isn't!"
But Hopkins met Grant's eye and lacked the courage of his desire. It would be folly to make an enemy of a C.I.D. Inspector.