O'Reilly rose and shook the offered hand. He was tall and lean, and brown-faced as a soldier back from the war. He had a boyish air, younger than his thirty-one or thirty-two years: but under that look was the same sort of hardness and keenness which was the first thing a stranger noticed about Sands.
"I'd no idea you were out west."
"It's been a flying trip," O'Reilly answered.
"Queer I missed seeing you before. Suppose you've been on board since Los Angeles?"
"I caught sight of you last night for the first time," said the other. "I'm not in your car, and I've been resting up. I came on board tired. One usually does come on board tired!"
"Yes," said Roger. "Well, we shall knock up against each other now and then, here in the diner."
"Sure to. I shall be spending a few days in New York before Washington," O'Reilly volunteered.
"Right! But don't let your coffee get cold for me." Roger passed on.
If his thoughts had not been focussed on the occupant of Stateroom A he would have wondered a good deal as to what had taken Justin O'Reilly on a "flying trip" west. This was O'Reilly's first year in Congress, and he'd man[oe]uvred to make himself a conspicuous figure in Washington one way or other. His own present interests could not, Roger thought, be interfered with by Justin O'Reilly. The man was a Democrat, and opposed on principle to the cause of John Heron, whom Miss White had called the "California Oil Trust King": but personally the two were friends, even distantly related, and O'Reilly would wish to do Heron no secret injury.
When he got back to his own car Sands found the porter waiting.