“Will you grant me an interview, as I desire it, or not?” Enoch demanded.
“Not without Seth,” repeated Lamont stubbornly. He wrenched back his chair and sat down, followed by Seth Van Worden, who slipped into his own.
Though he had scarcely put in a word in an affair which Enoch Crane had assured him he was no part of, but which was rapidly turning from bad to worse, it, nevertheless, made him frightened and so ill at ease that he wished he was anywhere else but where he was. Seth had a horror of scenes, and the scene before him was verging dangerously near a club scandal. There was Mrs. Van Worden to think of. If his name was mentioned with it he knew what to expect from his wife, who was as proud of the name of Van Worden as she was of her solitaire earrings, or her box at the opera, in which she dozed twice weekly during the season.
“Without Mr. Van Worden,” Enoch continued to demand sternly.
“I’ll be damned if I will!” snapped Lamont, reaching out for the decanter of Bourbon and shakily spilling out for himself a stiff drink.
“You are a member of this club, sir,” declared Enoch. “I, as you may know, am a member of its advisory committee.” Lamont turned sharply.
“Well,” said he, with a careless shrug, “what of it?”
“On December 14,” continued Enoch, “you were over a month in arrears for house charges, amounting to one hundred and forty-two dollars. On December 15 you paid the amount without being posted, a delay having been granted you.”
Again Lamont turned. This time he faced him, silent and anxious.
“On the evening of December 14,” continued Enoch, “you were one of four members—Mr. Blake, Mr. Archie Reynolds, Mr. Raymond Crawford, and yourself—in a game of poker that lasted half the night.” Enoch planted his strong hands on the table. “Late play in this club is forbidden,” he declared. “Play of that kind especially. That night you won close to four hundred dollars.”