can’t get him back from Chicago, can I?”
At this moment a voice, unmistakably Wolfshiem’s, called “Stella!” from the other side of the door.
“Leave your name on the desk,” she said quickly. “I’ll give it to him when he gets back.”
“But I know he’s there.”
She took a step toward me and began to slide her hands indignantly up and down her hips.
“You young men think you can force your way in here any time,” she scolded. “We’re getting sickantired of it. When I say he’s in Chicago, he’s in Chi ca go.”
I mentioned Gatsby.
“Oh-h!” She looked at me over again. “Will you just—What was your name?”
She vanished. In a moment Meyer Wolfshiem stood solemnly in the doorway, holding out both hands. He