Condy
looked at the note-paper critically. "This kind's too swell. K.
D. B. wouldn't use Irish linen--never! Here, this is better,
glazed with blue lines and a flying bird stamped in the corner.
Now I'll write for the Captain, and you write for K. D. B."
"But where will we have them meet?"
This was a point. They considered the Chinese restaurant, the
Plaza, Lotta's fountain, the Mechanics' Library, and even the
cathedral over in the Mexican quarter, but arrived at no decision.
"Did you ever hear of Luna's restaurant?" said Condy. "By Jove,
it's just the place! It's the restaurant where you get Mexican
dinners; right in the heart of the Latin quarter; quiet little
old-fashioned place, below the level of the street, respectable as
a tomb. I was there just once. We'll have 'em meet there at
seven in the evening. No one is there at that hour. The place
isn't patronized much, and it shuts up at eight. You and I can go
there and have dinner at six, say, and watch for them to come."
Then they set to work at their letters.
"Now," said Condy, "we must have these sound perfectly natural,
because if either of these people smell the smallest kind of a
rat, you won't catch 'em. You must write not as YOU would write,
but as you think THEY would. This is an art, a kind of fiction,
don't you see? We must imagine a certain character, and write a
letter consistent with that character. Then it'll sound natural.
Now, K.
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