Thus, arm in arm, they crossed the threshold of “Cunlip and Company, dealers in precious stones.”
Dyke in a moment was smiling, like a child who in the midst of fearful tantrums is soothed by a magic word from the lips of governess or nursemaid.
“Now this will be fun,” he said, beaming at her. “You listen to everything that he says. Where’s Mr. Cunlip? I want to see him at once, if he can make it convenient.”
Mr. Cunlip, a small, dark, old man, received them in a dingy office behind his show-rooms on the ground floor. He seemed a little taken aback by Dyke’s breezy self-introduction and cordial greetings.
“Well, here I am at last—Dyke—Anthony Dyke, you know. That doesn’t impress you, eh?” And Mr. Dyke laughed good-humouredly. “Well, I’ll give you a name that will mean something to you. Pedro del Sarto! Ever heard of Pedro del Sarto? Of Buenos Ayres, you know.”
But, to Dyke’s slight discomfiture, the name aroused no immediate memories in Mr. Cunlip. It became necessary to give further details—such as that old Pedro was a tip-topper, a white man, one of Dyke’s best friends, that he had been over here in 1880 and had done business with Mr. Cunlip.
Then the dealer in precious stones at last remembered. “Oh, yes, to be sure. But I see so many gentlemen from Argentina. A Spanish gentleman, wasn’t he? Headquarters at Buenos Ayres, but connected with those gold mines at Cape Horn? Yes, I’ve placed him now. I hadn’t much business with him. I passed him on to the assay people over the road.”
“That’s the man,” said Dyke, beaming. “Well, you’ll recollect now that he wrote to you two years ago to say I’d call on you at the first opportunity.”
“Two years ago! First opportunity, what!”