I got up and looked him over, and he leans back in the chair and begins to tap one hand in the palm of the other and gaze out the window at the city of London. So I put my hat on the place I bought it for and started for the door.
"Who shall I say is seekin' him?" I asks, hesitatin'.
The mysterious stranger turns loose a yawn, reaches into a side pocket, and hands me a card, on which, from the feel to the naked hand, the letters is raised a foot high. Naturally I glanced at it. It says the followin':
Augustus Robertson-Carrowsmith, 3d.
Sweet Mamma!
"So you're a infielder, hey?" I remarks courteously.
A icy eyebrow goes up. "Beg pardon?" he says.
I waved the card at him. "It says on this you play third, don't it?" I explains.
"Will you be good enough to get Mister—eh—Roberts at once?" he snorts, and gimme a splendid view of his back.
By dumb luck I run into the Kid in the hotel lobby, so I slipped him the card this guy gimme. A short look is all that's needed to make the Kid's naturally fair complexion seven shades lighter and sends his eyebrows into a hard, straight line. He crams the card into his pocket like he wanted to shove it all the ways through, and then follows me into the elevator without a word.
