Bellair hearkened to a faint singing somewhere within and found it had to do with Bessie. He called Brandt’s and ascertained that the same quartette was to sing there at nine in the evening. This was also one of the things he had come to do.
Broadwell was a trifle late, but all urbanity. There was something of the salesman’s manner and enunciation about him. Bellair fell away after the greeting, caught in a sort of mental flurry in which the picture of another luncheon engagement recurred to his mind—the day he had passed the desk and cage of Mr. Sproxley with the stranger named Filbrick, and his own telling of the cashier’s passionate honour.... When he came back to see clearly the face of Broadwell, he found that he personally was being scrutinised with odd intensity. Could it be that Broadwell had something more than a personal friendly interest? His questions did not seem adroit, and yet he wanted to know so much—of the ship, of Auckland, but especially of this long drive back to New York.
“Are you stopping here?” he asked.
“Yes. My old room was just opposite, but I was told that the house was full.”
“So you came here?”
“Yes.”
“And are you going to stay in New York?”
“I don’t know, Ben. There are a few things to see to.”
“Are you looking for a job?”
“Well, no. Not exactly, at least.”