"Why no, Ted, I'm not. In the first place I haven't been invited; and, second, they are not so much in my line."
"Who, where, when?" I tried to make this scornfully ironic, but I only drew a broader grin than before from Knowlton.
"You owe the honour of this invitation to Mr. Hemphill, of our office staff."
I snorted, this time with anger.
"That fat old bore!" I exclaimed.
Knowlton interrupted me. "Hush, Teddy. While I recognize a certain truth in your description, still you are to know that our Mr. Hemphill, although hard up, belongs to one of the first families of Deep Harbor. His wife helps run the social plant in this burg—she's superintendent of it, in fact, and issues or cancels all permits to circulate through the labyrinth. I've only recently made this important discovery. Hence your bid to dinner." Knowlton grinned triumphantly.
Hemphill was a particularly disagreeable figure in the outer office, for he always buttonholed one to listen to a tiresome anecdote.
"It's the wife, Ted, who runs the works—not old Charlie. I agree with you about him. Believe me, he's kept on his good behaviour at home." Knowlton pressed his buzzer. "I'll have him in and tell him you've accepted."
I saw it was useless to protest. Hemphill appeared at the door, and I looked more closely than heretofore at my prospective host. Across his fat red face there spread an oily smile which sank on each side into a coarse iron-grey stubble. His forehead was high and greasy above two small blue eyes, beneath which were pouches of red skin. His hair, stiff and grey like the growth on his face, was worn pompadour and trimmed to make his head appear flat on top. Over the most conspicuously Falstaffian detail of his anatomy hung a heavy gold watch chain carrying many seals indicative of his membership in fraternal organizations. In the lapel of his coat was an enameled button as further proof of his fellowship.
"Mr. Hemphill," said Knowlton, "Ted accepts with pleasure your invitation to dine at your house this evening."