It's helped--lots
of times. If I'd told you my name was Cohen, or Selmsky, or Meyer,
instead of Craig Talbot, _you'd_ have thought I was a Jew." He smiled
and turned his face toward me. As though furnishing a description for
the police, he began to enumerate:
"Hair, dark and curly; eyes, poppy; lips, full; nose, Roman or Hebraic,
according to taste. Do you see?"
He shrugged his shoulders.
"But it didn't work," he concluded. "I picked the wrong Jew."
His face grew serious. "Do you suppose that Smedburg person _has_
wirelessed that banker?"
I told him I was afraid he had already sent the message.
"And what will Meyer do?" he asked. "Will he drop it or make a fuss?
What sort is he?"
Briefly I described Adolph Meyer. I explained him as the richest Hebrew
in New York; given to charity, to philanthropy, to the betterment of his
own race.
"Then maybe," cried Talbot hopefully, "he won't make a row, and my
family won't hear of it!"
He drew a quick breath of relief. As though a burden had been lifted,
his shoulders straightened.
And then suddenly, harshly, in open panic, he exclaimed aloud:
"Look!" he whispered.
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