“Can I see Miss Ethel Ogden?” and at the sound of the visitor’s voice Ogden started violently.
“No, sor, Miss Ogden has retired for the night,” answered Charles, and thinking to forestall further questions, he added: “And Professor Norcross is dinin’ at the Cosmos Club, and Misther Barclay ain’t returned since luncheon. Shall I tell them who called, sor?”
“Colonel Carter Calhoun,” was the reply. “I will call tomorrow. Good night.”
“Good night, sor,” Charles watched Calhoun go down the steps and enter a taxicab, then closed the door. “Sure, he’s an ilegant gintleman,” he said aloud, garrulousness having grown upon him. “I’ll remember him.”
“And so will I,” Ogden’s involuntary whisper reached no ears but his own.
Ogden found his solitary guest sitting where he had left him. Neither of the men spoke until Ogden had resumed his old seat.
“That was Carter Calhoun,” announced Ogden, but the name aroused no apparent interest in the expressionless face and manner of his companion. “He’s coming again.”
“When?”
“Tomorrow.”
“So,” Takasaki thought a minute, picked up a small writing pad and using his gold pencil, jotted down a number of figures, tore off the sheet and handed it to his companion. Ogden’s eyebrows went up as he read the numerals and the sign before them, then crushing the scrap of paper in his hand, tossed it into the open fire on the hearth. Shifting his position slightly, Takasaki contemplated Ogden at his leisure by aid of the movable standing lamp, the only electric light turned on in the room. The seconds had become minutes before Takasaki spoke.