Horton allowed himself to be divested of his coat and hat, but when he followed Storm into the living-room he was still carrying the black bag, which he deposited on a corner of the couch, seating himself beside it.
“Mammoth Trust, eh?” he repeated. “Your old man was a big bug there at one time, wasn’t he? I remember you used to talk about it in the old days; said he was going to get you an easy berth there when you graduated. By Gad, you did fall in soft!”
Storm flushed at the imputation, although he found no words with which to deny it. What a rough boor Jack had become! He almost regretted that he had brought him home. Still, even he was better than no one.
“Cocktail?” he asked suggestively.
Horton shook his head.
“I’m off the fancy stuff,” he replied. “The fact is, I’m not supposed to be touching anything at all, but I may as well take the lid off since we’re going to make a night of it. Got any Scotch?”
Storm produced the bottle, siphon and two tall glasses, and went into the kitchen to crack some ice. His guest followed him to the door after a quick backward glance at his bag.
“Great little place you’ve got here.” He glanced about him and back at his host. Then for the first time he noted the latter’s mourning garb, and his eyes widened. “Look here, Norman, you—you’ve lost someone. Not your wife——?” Storm nodded.
“You don’t say! I’m confoundedly sorry, old scout!” Horton exclaimed with real feeling. “I knew you were married, of course; saw your wife’s picture in the society papers more than once a few years ago. When you brought me here and I lamped it was a typical bachelor’s diggings, I didn’t like to ask questions; divorces here are thicker than fleas below the border, and you never can tell. When did it happen, Norman?”
“A little over a month ago.” Storm turned to the ice chest as if to cut off further questions or attempt at sympathy, but Horton was as impervious to snubs as a good-natured puppy.