SOME days or weeks after the dinner party, when all recollection of this conversation had passed out of my mind, I was working in the outer office of our suite on Gramercy Park one morning, when a good-looking young man came in. He was a mere lad of nineteen or so, but his face wore that unnatural look of experience and assurance that suggests a childhood spent on the streets.
“No; her secretary.” I could see that the little wretch was only trying to flatter me.
“Well, is she in?”
“Mme. Storey can only receive visitors by appointment,” I said. “Will you tell me your business?”
“Sure,” he said, with an appearance of the utmost good humor, plumping himself into a chair without waiting for an invitation. His bright eyes traveled around the room, taking everything in. “You sure got a swell
