II
THE Westcote Country Club was all Mr. Wellaway’s host had boasted. The greens rolled away from the small club-house in graceful beauty, small groves of elms and maples studded the course, and picturesque stone walls and sodded bunkers provided sufficient hazards. Everything was as neat as a new pin. It was a sight to make any golfer happy, but when the station cab rolled up to the club-house door, Mr. Wellaway was not entirely happy. He was beginning to feel like an interloper. The more he studied the face of his host, the surer he became that he had no business to be a guest. As a word in print, when studied intensely, becomes a mere jumble of meaningless letters, so the face of his host grew less and less familiar, until Mr. Wellaway had decided his familiarity was with the type of face and not with this particular face. One thing alone comforted him: his host seemed to know Mr. Wellaway.
As they left the cab, Mr. Wellaway made a desperate effort to learn the name of his host; for he felt that if he did not learn it now he was in for a most unpleasant five minutes. Mr. Wellaway was a small, gentle little man, but he was almost rude in his insistence that he be permitted to pay the cabby.
“Yes, I will,” he insisted. “I certainly will. If you don’t let me, I’ll be downright angry. You paid my fare, and you offer me an afternoon’s sport; but I am going to pay this cabman.”
“But this is my party,” said his host.
“You go right into the club-house, and let me pay,” said Mr. Wellaway. “I want to do this, and you ought to let me.” With a laugh the host turned away. Mr. Wellaway fumbled in his pocket until he was alone with the cabman.
“What is the charge?” he asked.
“Quarter,” said the cabby, briefly.
“Here’s a dollar,” said Mr. Wellaway. “Now, can you tell me the name of that man—the man who drove up with me?”
“No, sir,” said the cabman; “I don’t know what his name is.”
“I just wanted to know,” said Mr. Wellaway.
When he entered the club-house his host was alone.
“You wanted to telephone,” he said to Mr. Wellaway. “There’s the booth. It’s a money-in-the-slot machine. I’ll get a greens-ticket and a bag of clubs for you while you are in there, and we will not lose any time. When you come out, come up to the locker-room.”
Mr. Wellaway entered the booth and closed the door. He called for his number and waited while the connection was made. It was hot in the booth with the door closed, but not for the world would Mr. Wellaway have opened it.
“Hello, is that you, Mary?” he asked, when he had dropped the requisite coins in the slot at the request of the central. “This is Edgar. Yes. I’m out at Westcote, on Long Island. I’m going to play golf. I met a friend, and he insisted that I come out here and try his course. I say I met a friend. Yes, a friend. An old acquaintance. He lives out here.”
For a few seconds Mr. Wellaway listened.
“No, listen!” said Mr. Wellaway. “I don’t know what his name is, but I’ll find out. I just met him, you know, and he asked me, and I couldn’t say, ‘Thank you, I’ll accept; but what is your name?’ I couldn’t say that, could I? When he knew me so well? Oh, nonsense, Mary! I tell you it’s a man.”
As he listened to what Mary had to say to this, Mr. Wellaway sighed deeply.
“No, it is not funny that I don’t know his name,” he said. “You know I can’t remember names, and I know thousands of men, and speak to them, and can’t recall their names. Listen! There’s no reason in the world for your jealousy to get stirred up. Not the least. I’ll know his name inside half an hour, and if you are going to act that way about it, I’ll telephone you the minute I learn it. Yes, I will! Well, that’s all right, too; but since you take that attitude, I’m going to telephone you. Good-by.” He waited half a minute for an answering “Good-by,” and then hung up the receiver softly. Mary’s jealousy was a real annoyance. Mr. Wellaway stepped out of the booth and wiped his forehead.
The small sitting-room of the club was deserted. In the adjacent butler’s pantry he could hear the steward at work, and above the low ceiling he could hear his host changing his shoes. On the bulletin-board, among the announcements of competitions and new rules, was a list of members posted for dues or house-accounts. It was a very short list, and Mr. Wellaway recognized none of the names. On the opposite wall was a framed list of the club-members, perhaps one hundred and twenty-five, and Mr. Wellaway ran his eye down them. Only one of the names was familiar, that of George C. Rogers, and the host was not Rogers, for Mr. Wellaway knew Rogers well. Not another name was even faintly familiar. Mr. Wellaway was still poring over the list when his host descended the stairs.
“I see,” said Mr. Wellaway, “that George Rogers is a member of the club.”
“That so?” said his host. “I don’t know him. I don’t know many of the fellows yet. Rankin and Mallows are putting me up for membership, but I’m playing on a temporary card until the next meeting of the board of governors. They say there’s no doubt I’ll be admitted; but I don’t take chances. I pay as I go until I’m a full member. When I’m in, I’ll sign checks like the rest of them; but until I am in, I’ll pay cash. Now, you run up and shuck your coat, if you want to, while I get you a bag of clubs and a greens-ticket. I left my locker open—Number 43.”
Mr. Wellaway ascended the stairs. All about the locker-room were the lockers, two high, and on each was the name of the holder. The door of 43 stood open, and Mr. Wellaway darted for it, and looked for the name of his host. There was no name on the locker.
Drawn by Henry Raleigh
“‘NOW, CAN YOU TELL ME THE NAME OF THAT MAN—THE MAN WHO DROVE UP WITH ME?’”