VII
“OH, I’m so sorry!” said Mr. Wellaway’s hostess in real distress. “We were absolutely unaware, Mr. Wellaway. We meant no harm. Roger did not know your name. But you can fix it all right. You can telephone Mrs. Wellaway that you are here. Telephone her immediately.”
“Yes,” said Mr. Wellaway. “I’ll do that. That’s what I must do,” and he went up the stairs to the telephone. He returned in ten minutes and found his host and hostess sitting opposite each other, staring at each other with sober faces. They looked at him eagerly as he entered. His face showed no relief.
“She says,” he said, “she says she don’t believe I’m here. She says I could telephone from anywhere, and say I was anywhere else. She says she just telephoned here, and knows I’m not here. And then she asked me where I was telephoning from, and—”
Mr. Wellaway broke down and hid his face in his hands.
“And I didn’t know where I was telephoning from!” he moaned. “I didn’t know the street or the house number, or—or the name!”
“You didn’t know the name!” cried Mr. Wellaway’s host. “You didn’t know my name was Murchison?”
“Murchison?” said Mr. Wellaway, blankly. “Not the—not the Murchison? Not Roger P. Murchison, the advertising agent, the publicity man?”
“Of course,” said Mr. Wellaway’s host. For a full minute Mr. Wellaway stared at Mr. Murchison.
“I know,” said Mr. Wellaway. “You eat at the Fifth Avenue! You sit by the palm just to the left of the third window every noon.”
“By George!” exclaimed Mr. Murchison. “I knew your face was familiar. And you sit at the end table right by the first window. Why, I’ve seen you there every day for a year.”
“Of course you have,” said Mr. Wellaway, cheerfully. “That explains everything. It makes it all as simple as—” His face fell suddenly. “But it doesn’t make it any easier about Mary.”
Mr. Murchison might have said that Mary was none of his concern, but he creased his brow in thought.
“Sarah,” he said at length, “run up-stairs and telephone Mrs. Wellaway that her husband is here. Tell her he means to stay over Sunday, and that he wants her to hire a taxicab and come out immediately and stay over Sunday. Tell her our game of golf was a tie, and I insist that Mr. Wellaway play off the tie to-morrow afternoon.”
Mrs. Murchison disappeared.
“And now,” said Mr. Murchison, genially, “you know my name, and you know my business, and I know your name, and everything is all right, and I’m mighty glad to know you as long as you are not a floor-walker. Oh, pardon me!” he added quickly, “you are not a floor-walker, are you? You didn’t say what your business was.”
Mr. Wellaway blushed.
“Names,” he said. “I’m a genealogist. My business is looking up names.”
Drawn by Henry Raleigh
“MR. WELLAWAY’S HOST THREW HIS BAG OF CLUBS ON THE GRASS AS THOUGH IT WERE RED HOT, AND STARTED AT A FULL RUN FOR THE CLUB-HOUSE”
