“What did he say?” asked Tom.
“He said: 'How much did he offer to give you when you said I wasn't at home?' Yes, sir. That's what he asked me.”
“And you said?”
“I said it was a yellowback, sir. That's all I could see. I said I wouldn't take it, and he said I might just as well have taken it. Thank you, sir! This way, sir.”
The footman led the way to the door in the rear, rapped, and in the sonorous, triumphant voice that a twenty-dollar tip will give to any menial he announced:
“Mr. Merriwether!”
The same man was in the same chair in the same room, with his back to the stained-glass window. Tom recalled all the incidents of his previous visits—recalled every detail. Also the old question: What is the game? Also the new question: Where is she?
The man rose and bowed. It was the bow of a social equal, Tom saw.
“Good morning, Mr. Merriwether. Won't you be seated, sir?” And he motioned him to a chair.
“Thank you.”