He said this with a cold indifference that made Tom look incuriously at the man, whose obvious desire was to excite curiosity. Then the man said, with an earnestness that in spite of himself impressed the heir of the Merriwether railroads:
“Mr. Thomas Thorne Merriwether, classified in our books as 7-7-77, you are the man I need for this job!”
“Indeed?” said Tom, politely.
“Yes, you are.” Tom bowed his head and looked resigned. He deliberately intended to look that way. The man went on, “The reason I am so sure is because I know both who and what you are.”
“Ah, you know me pretty well, then.” Tom could not help the mild sarcasm.
“I have known you, young man, for eighty-five years, perhaps longer.” The man spoke calmly.
“Indeed!” said Tom. He was twenty-eight.
“Yes. On top of that cabinet is a book. After the name Thomas Thorne Merriwether you will find 7-7-77. In the cabinet—seventh section, seventh drawer, card Number 77—you will find clinical data, physiological and psychological details, anecdotes, and so on, about you and your father, E. H. Merriwether, and your mother, Josephine Thorne; your grandfathers, Lyman Grant Merriwether and Thomas Conkling Thorne, and of your grandmothers, Malvina Sykes Thorne and Lydia Weston Merriwether. Indeed I know about your great-grandfathers and three of your great-great-grandparents; but the data in their case are of little value save as to Ephraim Merriwether, who in seventeen sixty-three killed in one duel three army officers who laughed at his twisted nose, bitten and disfigured for life by a wolf-cub he had tried to tame. Facts not generally known, but, for all that, facts, young Mr. Thomas Thome Merriwether, which enable me to say that I have known you these hundred and fifty years—if there is anything in heredity, environment, and education! And now, shall I tell you what favor number three is?”
“If you please,” said Tom.
For the first time he felt that the usual suspicions as to a merrymaking game could not be justified in this particular instance. It was much too elaborate for a practical joke. He did not know how the matter would end; but he did not care. In New York, on Fifth Avenue, on Tuesday afternoon, he was having what, indeed, was an experience!