and
ready way----"

"P.O.F.!" I breaks in.

"What?" says Steele.

"Please omit floral tributes," says I. "You was wonderin' if I couldn't
what--size him up for you?"

"Just that," says J. Bayard. "While your methods are not always of the
subtlest, I must concede that at times your--er--native intuition----"

"Top floor--all out!" I breaks in. "You mean I can do a quick frame-up
without feelin' the party's bumps or consultin' the cards? Maybe I can.
But I ain't strong for moochin' around these oolong joints among the
draped tunics and vanity boxes."

He's a persistent party, though, J. Bayard is, and after he's guaranteed
that we won't run into any mob of shoppers this late in the day, and
urged me real hard, I consents to trail along with him and pass on
Gerald.

One of the usual teashop joints, the Brass Candlestick is, tucked away
in a dwelling house basement on a side street about half a block east of
Fifth avenue, with a freaky sign over the door and a pair of moultin'
bay trees at the entrance. Inside we finds a collection of little white
tables with chairs to match, a showcase full of arty jew'lry, and some
shelves loaded with a job lot of odd-shaped vases and jugs and teapots
and such truck.

A tall, loppy female with mustard-colored hair and haughty manners tows
us to a place in a dark corner and shoves a menu at us. You know the
tearoom brand of waitress maybe, and how distant they can be? But this
one fairly sneers at us as she takes our order; although I kind of
shrivels up in the chair and acts as humble as I know how.

"That ain't Sister Evelyn, is it?" says I, as she disappears towards the
back.

"No, no," says Steele. "Miss Webb is at the little cashier's desk, by
the door. And that is Webb, behind the counter, talking to those
ladies."

"Oh!" says I. "Him with the pale hair and the narrow mouth? Huh! He is
Lizzie-like, ain't he?"

He's a slim, thin-blooded, sharp-faced gent, well along in the thirties,
I should judge, with gray showin' in his forelock, and a dear little
mustache pointed at the ends; the sort of chappy who wears a braid-bound
cutaway and a wrist watch, you know. He's temptin' his customers with
silver-set turquoise necklaces, and abalone cuff links, and moonstone
sets, and such; doin' it dainty and airy, and incidentally displayin' a
job of manicurin' that's the last word in fingernail decoration. Such
smooth, highbrow conversation goes with it too!

"Oh, yes, Madam," I