“I bin hearin’ them Geerusalem sports braggin’ around about some new-fangled game called chop sueys, that the chinks play, an’ I’m goin’ to take a whirl at it ’fore I go back, even if I lose,” he said, as he entered his room.
They were in the midst of their dressing, when the hall doorbell rang. Lemuel answered it and fell back with a gasp of amazement when he recognized the smiling face of his visitor.
“Dick Lennox! Why, you ol’ son of a gun! What’re you doin’? When, in heck, did you git in?” he exploded, grasping the other by the hand and drawing him into the room.
“This afternoon. Awfully glad to see you, Lem. I’ve been on your trail ever since you left.”
Lemuel eyed him sharply. “How’s that? Anythin’ gone wrong?”
“Not a thing in the world that I know. Just a matter of urgent business,” said Lennox.
He removed his nobby overcoat as he spoke, and arranged his tie with fastidious care, smiling genially at the other the while.
He was a tall, wiry chap of twenty-eight, the stamp of college days still on him, rather prepossessing of features, with shrewd blue eyes, and blond hair slicked back. Lemuel noticed that he had changed his corduroys and half-boots of Geerusalem vogue for a snappy gray suit.
“Say, Lem, I’m about the luckiest cuss you ever heard of,” he cried, throwing himself in a chair and lighting a cigarette. “I combed the camp, as the detectives say, but couldn’t get a line where you’d gone. Then I butted into the guy that drove you to Mirage. He thought you’d come to Frisco—overheard you talking, I guess. But Frisco is some bigger than Geerusalem, and I was euchred. I was just figuring I’d have to give up and wait till you returned, when I just happened to remember you once mentioned the Golden West Hotel as the place you’d stop at if you ever hit the city. I took a chance, and here you are. Can you beat it?”
“I’d call it clever work, myself,” laughed Lemuel.