presence. The room was panelled in Circassian walnut, heavy red satin damask curtains shaded the light at the window, and a turkey red rug covered most of the parqueted floor. At his desk, his back toward the window, sat Ben Griesheimer, a man of perhaps sixty, with a great hooked nose and bead-like eyes which completed his resemblance to a sinister eagle. His multiple chins and his expansive belly somehow quarrelled with this first impression. On the glass-topped desk in front of him stood several framed photographs, one of Auburn Six, another of an imposing Jewish lady, probably Mrs. Griesheimer, Ambrose decided, and still another of a growing family of Jewish children grouped on a lawn with a family of Norwegian elkhounds.
In response to Auburn's introduction, the fat man extended a flabby hand on which sparkled a huge diamond set in a heavy band of gold, but he did not raise his eyes.
How are you, Mr. Deacon? he inquired brusquely. Then, Sit down, please.
They obeyed him and an awkward silence followed while he continued to examine papers, a silence broken by the man's impatient question, Well, well, what can I do for you?
Auburn saw fit to reply: You know Mr. Deacon
