... I suppose
that's the job you're on, you flat-footed dick, you!"
The second telephone call had secured an appointment at the Forsyte
School for "Mr. James Wadley Randolph, Jr., of Boston," and Dundee,
rather relishing his first need for such professional tactics, relaxed
to enjoy the ten-mile drive along the Hudson.
It was a quarter to twelve when his taxi swept up the drive toward the
big grey-stone, turreted building, sedately lonely in the midst of its
valuable acres.
"Miss Earle says to come to the office," a colored maid told him, when
he had given his borrowed name, and led him from the vast hall to a
fairly large room, whose windows looked upon a tennis court, and whose
walls were almost covered with group pictures of graduating classes,
photographs of amateur theatrical performances, and portrait studies of
alumnae.
A very thin, sharp-faced woman of about forty, with red-rimmed eyes
which peered nearsightedly, rose from an old-fashioned roll-top desk and
came forward to greet him.
"I am Miss Earle, Miss Pendleton's private secretary," she told him, as
he shook her bony, clammy hand. "I should have told you when you
telephoned this morning that both Miss Pendleton and Miss Macon sailed
for Europe yesterday. We always have our commencement the last Tuesday
in May, you know.
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