Jill had read works of fiction in which at certain crises everything had “seemed to swim” in front of the heroine's eyes, but never till this moment had she experienced that remarkable sensation herself. The Savior of Guatemala did not actually swim, perhaps, but he certainly flickered. She had to blink to restore his prismatic outlines to their proper sharpness. Already the bustle and noise of New York had begun to induce in her that dizzy condition of unreality which one feels in dreams, and this extraordinary statement added the finishing touch.
Perhaps the fact that she had said “please” to him when she opened the conversation touched the heart of the hero of a thousand revolutions. Dignified and beautiful as he was to the eye of the stranger, it is unpleasant to have to record that he lived in a world which rather neglected the minor courtesies of speech. People did not often say “please” to him. “Here!” “Hi!” and “Gosh darn you!” yes; but seldom “please.” He seemed to approve of Jill, for he shifted his chewing-gum to a position which facilitated speech, and began to be helpful.
“Christopher Selby? No one of that name living here.”
The veteran shook his head with an indulgent smile.
“You want Mr Sipperley,” he said tolerantly. In Guatemala these mistakes are always happening. “Mr George Sipperley. He's on the fourth floor. What name shall I say?”
He had almost reached the telephone when Jill stopped him. This is an age of just-as-good substitutes, but she refused to accept any unknown Sipperley as a satisfactory alternative for Uncle Chris.
“I don't want Mr Sipperley. I want Major Selby.”
“S-e-l-b-y. No one of that name living here. Mr. Sipperley—”—he spoke in a wheedling voice, as if determined, in spite of herself, to make Jill see what was in her best interests—“Mr Sipperley's on the fourth floor. Gentleman in the real estate business,” he added insinuatingly. “He's got blond hair and a Boston bull-dog.”
“He may be all you say, and he may have a dozen bulldogs —”
“— But he isn't the right man. It's absurd. Major Selby wrote to me from this address. This is Eighteen East Fifty-seventh Street?”
“This is Eighteen East Fifty-seventh Street,” conceded the other cautiously.
“I've got his letter here.” She opened her bag, and gave an exclamation of dismay. “It's gone!”
“Mr Sipperley used to have a friend staying with him last Fall. A Mr Robertson. Dark-complected man with a mustache.”
“I took it out to look at the address, and I was sure I put it back. I must have dropped it.”
“There's a Mr Rainsby on the seventh floor. He's a broker down on Wall Street. Short man with an impediment in his speech.”
Jill snapped the clasp of her bag.
“Never mind,” she said. “I must have made a mistake. I was quite sure that this was the address, but it evidently isn't. Thank you so much. I'm so sorry to have bothered you.”
She walked away, leaving the Terror of Paraguay and all points west speechless: for people who said “Thank you so much” to him were even rarer than those who said “please.” He followed her with an affectionate eye till she was out of sight, then, restoring his chewing-gum to circulation, returned to the perusal of his paper. A momentary suggestion presented itself to his mind that what Jill had really wanted was Mr Willoughby on the eighth floor, but it was too late to say so now: and soon, becoming absorbed in the narrative of a spirited householder in Kansas who had run amuck with a hatchet and slain six, he dismissed the matter from his mind.
