desirability of a month's rent in advance.
In a glass case behind the inner door, reading a newspaper and chewing gum, sat a dignified old man in the rich uniform of a general in the Guatemalan army. He was a brilliant spectacle. He wore no jewelry, but this, no doubt, was due to a private distaste for display. As there was no one else of humbler rank at hand from whom Jill could solicit an introduction and the privilege of an audience, she took the bold step of addressing him directly.
“I want to see Major Selby, please.”
The Guatemalan general arrested for a moment the rhythmic action of his jaws, lowered his paper and looked at her with raised eyebrows. At first Jill thought that he was registering haughty contempt, then she saw what she had taken for scorn was surprise.
“Major Selby?”
“Major Selby.”
“No Major Selby living here.”
“Major Christopher Selby.”
“Not here,” said the associate of ambassadors and the pampered pet of Guatemala's proudest beauties. “Never heard of him in my life!”
2.
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.
“What was the name again?”
“Selby.”
“Howja spell it?”
“S-e-l-b-y.”
“S-e-l-b-y. Oh, Selby?”
“Yes, Selby.”
“What was the first name?”
“Christopher.”
“Christopher?”
“Yes, Christopher.”
“Christopher Selby? No one of that name living here.”
“But there must be.”
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.”
“Howja spell it once more?”
“S-e-l-b-y.”
“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 —”
“Only one. Jack his name is.”
“— But he isn't the right man. It's absurd. Major Selby wrote to me from this address. This
“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.”
