“I thought so.”
The secretary turned to the typewriter, and their eyes met (out of that was born a story—nothing to do with this story). She looked inquiringly, doubtful of his resources. He signed to her to move to the Morse as a general brings brigades into action. Then he swept his hand musician-wise through his hair, regarded the ceiling, and set to work, while Miss Kinzey’s white fingers called up the Continent of America.
“ K. H. Wade, Los Angeles— The ‘Constance’ is at Los Angeles, isn’t she, Miss Kinzey?”
“Yep.” Miss Kinzey nodded between clicks as the secretary looked at his watch.
“Ready? Send Constance, private car, here, and arrange for special to leave here Sunday in time to connect with New York Limited at Sixteenth Street, Chicago, Tuesday next. ”
Click-click-click! “Couldn’t you better that?”
“Not on those