We descended
at 47th Street and, after a short walk, entered a tall building, from the
hall of which several lifts were running. We took one of them and stopped
at the eleventh floor. Exactly opposite to us was a door, on the frosted
glass of which was painted in black letters:
"PHILIP H. MAGG,
AGENT"
We opened the door and entered. A middle-aged man, dark and with Jewish
features, was sitting writing at a desk. There was no one else in the
room, which was quite a small one. He glanced at us both carelessly
enough, and leaned back in his chair.
"Good morning, Mr. Magg!" Guest said.
"Good morning, gentlemen!" Mr. Magg answered.
"You do not by chance remember me, I suppose?" Guest said.
A faint smile parted the lips of the gentleman in the chair. He rather
avoided looking at us, but seemed to be glancing through the letter which
he had just been writing.
"I never forget a face--and I never remember one--unnecessarily," he
answered. "It is the A B C of my profession. To-day I believe that it is
Mr. Guest, and his friend Mr.
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