"This is it here," said I; "but perhaps you would not mind waiting a moment, I still have something to do.
Won't you sit down inside awhile?"
The young swell listened a moment to the humming of the engine, made at first a critical, then an appreciative face, and let me conduct him to the office.
"Idiot," I growled at him and hastened back to Blumenthal.
"If you had once driven the car, you would think differently about the price," said I. "You can gladly have it to try for as long as you like.
Or I could call some evening and take you for a trial run perhaps, if that suits you better."
But the momentary excitement had already flown.
Blumenthal was again standing there like a glee-club president in granite.
"Never mind," said he, "I must go now.
If I should want to have a trial run, I can always telephone."
I saw there was nothing more to be done for the present.
This fellow was not to be talked into anything.
"Very well," I declared, "but won't you give me your phone number, so that I can let you know if somebody else seems to be interested?"
Blumenthal looked at me significantly.
"Interested is still a long way from sold."
He took out a cigar case and offered me one: He was smoking already—Corona-Coronas, by Jove! He must have money like hay.
But that was nothing to me now.
I took the cigar.
He gave me a friendly handshake and left.
I watched him go, and cursed him softly but thoroughly.
Then I went back into the workshop.
"Well?" I was greeted by the young toff, Gottfried Lenz. "How did I do?
Saw you writhing about there, and thought I'd lend a hand.
Lucky thing Otto changed here for the Income Tax.
Saw. his good suit hanging there, leapt into it, out the window and back in again—a serious buyer.
Pretty good, eh?"
"Damned silly," I replied. "The fellow is slier than both of us put together.
See this cigar?
One mark fifty apiece.
You've chased away a millionaire."
Gottfried took the cigar out of my hand, smelled it and lit it.
"I've saved you from a swindler.
Millionaires don't smoke cigars like this.
They smoke ones at twenty-four a shilling."
"Rot," I answered. "Swindlers don't call themselves Blumenthal.
They, call themselves Count Blumenau or some such."
"He'll come back again," said Lenz, optimistic as ever, and blowing smoke from my own cigar into my face.
"Not he," said I with conviction. "But how did you come by the bamboo waddy and the gloves?"
"A loan.
Over the way, from Benn and Co.
I know the salesgirl there.
I think I might even keep the stick.
I like it." Pleased with himself, he twirled the thick cane in the air.
"Gottfried," said I, "you're wasted here.
D'you know what—you should go into vaudeville.
That's where you belong."
'"They've been ringing up for you," said Frida, Frau Zalewski's squint-eyed housemaid, as I came in unexpectedly at lunchtime.
I swung round.
"When?"
"About half an hour ago.