The Kellogg impostor was the center of a group on the porch. As they joined it, Mr. Morton approached from the other direction. The stout visitor was mopping his brow assiduously and answering questions in monosyllables. He seemed unable decide between his feet, for he stood first upon one, then upon the other, but never upon both at the same time.
Rosalind and Polly appeared, he observed them with an alarmed and imploring glance. Polly's eyes did not meet his, but the cool stare of her companion never winced.
"Here's Mr. Morton now!" exclaimed Mrs. Witherbee. "Of course, you know each other. Oh, Mr. Morton! Mr. Kellogg is here!"
Morton glanced casually over the head of the Perkins boy and studied the newcomer for a brief instant.
"By Jove, Kellogg, but I'm glad to see you!" he drawled.
The words were accompanied by the thrusting forth of a long arm, the hand attached to which seized the limp fingers of Kellogg. That young man permitted his jaw to drop an inch, where it hung, irresolute.
"Why—hello, Morton," he murmured.
"Glad you've joined us, I'm sure," said the Englishman unemotionally. "Awfully glad. How's New York?"
"F-fine!"
"And business?"