As Paget turned away from Steuben, a solemn-faced man whom he did not recognize walked by. He wondered if this could be the individual who had been in the room the day before.
Paget strolled about the club for more than an hour. He appeared languorous and entirely disinterested in the surroundings. Actually, he was watching for some one; and he was sitting in the lobby when the expected individual arrived.
A short, dark-complexioned man came into the Merrimac Club. He walked with an air of importance, and he seemed to express self-satisfaction in every mannerism. He had a businesslike stride; he stared straight ahead.
His keen eyes, his thin, straight lips, and his carefully pointed moustache, added to his expression of superiority. He did not see Paget until the latter greeted him.
“Hello, Wilbur,” drawled Paget, taking his cigarette holder from his lips. The newcomer stopped.
“Ah, Rodney,” he said. He extended his hand and Paget rose to meet him.
“Lunch together?” questioned Paget.
The man glanced at his watch.
“All right, Rodney,” he agreed. “I have an appointment at two. Just a bite, and then I’ll hurry on.”
THE man with whom Rodney Paget was lunching was Wilbur Blake, one of the wealthiest young men in New York. Blake was several years Paget’s junior. He had inherited millions, and moved in the most exclusive circles, and frequently traveled from New York.