Kenyon slept deeply all that day. Darkness was already thickening above the city when he climbed out of bed and began to douse himself with a huge sponge dipped in a pail of cold water.
“A dollar a day hotel doesn’t offer many conveniences,” said he, trying to keep his teeth from chattering. “But, then, I’ve seen more limited accommodations for the morning—or evening—bath, in more pretentious places. It was always a dreadful question with me whether my fellow strugglers for liberty in Uruguay ever bathed or no.”
He donned his dress clothes and took a cab to the Waldorf, where he had engaged to dine with Webster.
“We’ll do the thing with all proper ceremony to-night,” said the latter, “for it is probably our last chance. I’ve made arrangements for the first hardware dinner; it’s to come off to-morrow night and is to be followed by a long succession of others. They all fall for it, Ken; there is something about free food and champagne that men past middle age just can’t resist.”
“Are the samples all ready?” asked Kenyon, as they made their way among the tables in the glittering restaurant.
“They came this afternoon; and I’ve had two men unpacking at top speed ever since. You never saw such a brave display of useful goods in your life. There will be a riot when the trade gets its first look.”
The restaurant was fairly well filled; and as the two passed along on their way to a secluded nook, Kenyon’s air of elegant distinction as usual attracted much attention.
“A short fellow with red hair could never do it,” mused Webster, as he became aware of this. “How Providence does dump its gifts at the feet of some people.”
A low exclamation drew his attention swiftly to a table quite near the one they had selected; he saw a woman in a sombre motoring dress draw a thick, dark veil about her face; a man who sat at the table with her was regarding her with obvious surprise.
“What is it?” asked the man as Webster passed.