"Suits me."
"At Tait's. Reserve a table, will you, and we'll have supper."
"You're on," I said. "And plenty to do myself meantime." I hopped out on my side.
Worth sat in the roadster, not hurrying himself to follow up Cummings' suggestion—the big boy, non-communicative, incurious, the question of fortune lost or won seeming not to trouble him at all. I skirted the machine and came round to him, demanding,
"With whom do you suppose Cummings' engagement was?"
"Don't know, Jerry, and don't care," looking down at me serenely. "Why should I?" He swung one long leg free and stopped idly, half in the car, half out.
"What if I told you Cummings' engagement was with our friend Dykeman—only Dykeman doesn't know it yet?"
Slowly he brought that dangling foot down to the pavement, followed it with the other, and faced me. Across the blankness of his features shot a joyous gleam; it spread, brightening till he was radiant.
"I get you!" he chortled. "Collusion! They think I'm standing in with Clayte—Oh, boy!"
He threw back his head and roared.