He felt that Jemingham was not a man to trifle with—a tough customer in a rough-and-tumble fight; a man who had taken life in preserving his own; altogether a man, a character, who would make an admirable topic of conversation with both men and women—therefore a man to be interested in.
“Do you know Mr. Ashton Welles?” asked Jer-ningham, almost sharply.
“Not intimately.”
“Do you know Mrs. Ashton Welles?”
“Same answer.”
“Ever dine at their house?”
Frank thought a moment. He had dined at so many people's houses. “No,” he answered, finally. “Could you?”
“How do you mean?”
“Are your relations with Welles such, or could they be cultivated so, as to make him invite you—not me—you!—to dine at his house?”
“Look here, Mr. Jerningham,” and young Mr. Wolfe's face flushed, “a fellow doesn't do some things for money; and this is one—”