XXVII.—Lockwood Pays a Call
“Did you know Roger Barnes was back?” asked Wayne Carey of Anthony Robeson, on the evening of the twenty-fifth of June, as the two met on the street corner from which Anthony was to take his car. Electrics ran within a few rods of his home now, but they ran only at fifteen-minute intervals and were difficult to catch.
“No. To stay this time, I hope?”
“Off again to-morrow. Never saw such a fellow—restless as a fish. Been working all winter in Vienna—off to-morrow on the Overland Limited to sail Saturday for Hongkong. Goes to do a special operation on the Emperor’s brother or some swell of the sort. He’s been doing some mighty slick operating, according to the medical review I ran across in a throat specialist’s office.”
“I must see him. Where is he?”
“At your house now, more than likely. Said he’d got to see you, and if you haven’t seen him yet you’re sure to before he goes to-morrow night. By the way, Anthony, do you know what we heard lately about Rachel Redding—Huntington? That she wasn’t married to Huntington till the night he died, almost three years ago.”
Anthony stared.
“Guess it’s straight, too,” pursued Carey. “Queer she should have kept it all this time. Didn’t Juliet hear from her at all?”