It was Whitney Barnes’s turn to construct a frown and take on an air of intense seriousness, while his friend smiled at him, thinking it was one of his humorous moods.
“Can’t say I have anything definite on foot,” said Barnes slowly, “but the pater has given me a rather important commission to fulfil, though not exactly in mustard.”
“Well, then,” said Travers Gladwin with a trace of annoyance, “I’d better call on somebody else. I”––
“Nothing of the sort,” broke in Whitney Barnes. “It may fit right in with my plans. It’ll keep me circulating round a lot and that’s just what I want––that and what Bateato is bringing,” as the little brown man entered the room on the run, bearing a silver tray, decanter and glasses.
CHAPTER IX.
THE CURSE OF MILLIONS.
As Travers Gladwin’s valet filled the tall, slim glasses with the fizzing amber-colored fluid which constitutes the great American highball, the two friends stretched their legs and lost themselves for a few moments in aimless reverie. Bateato looked from one to the other, puzzled by their seriousness. He clinked the glasses to rouse them and glided from the room. Whitney Barnes was the first to look up and shake himself free of the sober spell that gripped him.
“What the deuce made you skip abroad in such a hurry, Travers?” he asked, reaching for his glass.