," he was forced to admit, after an hour of fruitless
thinking. "You'll have to trust in your rabbit's foot."
But if Mrs. Athelstone was a new species to him, the office boy was not.
He knew that youth down to the last button on his jacket. He knew, too,
that an office boy often whiles away the monotonous hours by piecing
together the president's secrets from the scraps in his waste-basket.
So at the noon hour he slipped out after Buttons, caught him as he was
disappearing up a near-by alley in a cloud of cigarette smoke, like the
disreputable little devil that he was, and succeeded in establishing
friendly and even familiar relations with him.
It was not, however, until late in the afternoon, when he was called
into the ante-chamber to discover the business of a caller, that he
improved the opportunity to ask the youth some leading questions.
"Suppose you open up mornings?" he began carelessly.
"Naw; Mrs. A. does. She bunks here."
"How?"
"In a bed. She's got rooms in de buildin'. That door by Booker T. leads
to 'em."
"Booker T.? Oh, sure! The brunette statue. And that other door--the one
to the left. Where does that go?"
"Into Brander's storeroom. He sells mummies on de side."
"Does, eh? Curious business!" commented Simpkins. "Seems to rub it into
_you_ pretty hard.
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