Paget had been staying with Blake now for about a week, and he enjoyed Paget’s company in the huge Long Island house. Blake’s vast wealth made friendships of an intimate nature rare. He was rather a lonely young man.
BLAKE had been occupied less than ten minutes before some one entered the room. He turned to see Rodney Paget.
“How did you come in?” questioned Blake, in surprise. “Otto just left to pick you up at the Merrimac Club.”
“He did?” exclaimed Paget. “I told them to call up from there. A friend of mine was coming out in this direction, so I came out with him. I didn’t have time to phone, myself.”
Blake summoned the butler.
“Did they call from the Merrimac Club?” he asked.
“No, sir,” replied Herbert.
“I know what they did,” said Paget disgustedly. “I told them your chauffeur was coming at ten. They probably thought I wanted them to inform him that I had gone. A fine pickle, isn’t it?”
“It makes no difference,” replied Blake. “I won’t need Otto anyway. I’m glad you arrived early. Bring us drinks, Herbert. Then we’ll try a game of billiards.”
While the two men sipped their glasses, Wilbur Blake became both loquacious and complimentary.