"But that adjourned three weeks ago."
Foster frowned, then smiled. "A woman's whim—we are not always independent, Miller"—a shrug completed the sentence. "Change your mind and have some Scotch?"
"No, thanks." Miller drew his chair closer to his companion, and lowered his voice. "I called this morning, Senator, to ask some questions about Winslow Whitney."
Foster's smile vanished, and the glance he shot at Miller was sharp.
"It depends on the questions," he began stiffly, "whether they are answered or not."
"Quite right," with unruffled composure. "I shall ask nothing which cannot be answered with propriety." Miller ceased speaking to light a cigarette. "All Washington knows Whitney is a man of wealth"—his keen eyes detected the sudden alteration in Foster's expression—"of standing in the social and business world, but has he achieved success as an inventor?"
"Yes," was the instant and unqualified response, and Miller's eyes lighted, but it was some seconds before he put another question.
"Are you familiar with his latest invention?"
"You mean his camera for use in aeroplanes?"
"Yes. Do you think it has any hope of success?"