In the corner
the engraved address, "Point View, Newport," was marked out with
a pencil and "The Ritz" written over it.
He got his coat and hat and followed the steward out of the club.
There was a carriage at the curb. A footman was holding the door
open, and a woman, leaning over in the seat, was looking out.
She was precisely what Hargrave expected to see, one of those
dominant, impatient, aggressive women who force their way to the
head of social affairs in America. She shot a volley of
questions at him the moment he was before the door.
"Are you Douglas Hargrave, the purchasing agent for Bartholdi &
Banks?"
The man said that he was, and at her service, and so forth. But
she did not stop to listen to any reply.
"You look mighty young, but perhaps you know your business. At
any rate, it's the best I can do. Get in."
Hargrave got in, the footman closed the door, and the carriage
turned into Piccadilly Circus. The woman did not pay very much
attention to him. She made a laconic explanation, the sort of
explanation one would make to a shopkeeper.
"I want your opinion on some jewels," she said.
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