“At the Ogdens’.” Patterson rose. “Are you by chance going to their dinner tomorrow night?”
“Yes, Lois told me she had accepted for us.” McLane followed him into the hall. “Then you don’t know why Tilghman was coming to Washington, after first writing me that he couldn’t leave California?”
“My dear fellow, I haven’t the faintest idea.” Patterson’s impatience was poorly concealed. “Down,” he roared, and as the elevator stopped, he called to McLane, “Good night, see you tomorrow.”
But once inside his limousine Patterson’s growing irritability found relief in glaring at his reflection in the small mirror opposite him.
“What was it McLane was muttering when I joined him in the hall?” he cogitated. “‘After fifteen years—and Jim Patterson in town.’ What had fifteen years to do with my being in town?”
Fifteen years—fifteen years—the words seemed to his excited imagination to be keeping time with the twinkling arc lights of the city streets, and Patterson involuntarily closed his eyes as he reviewed the years. Suddenly he sat up, his eyes shining, and clutching the speaking tube, he called to the chauffeur:
“To the nearest telegraph office, quick.”
CHAPTER XI
THE WHISPER
Mrs. Ogden looked complaisantly about the theater as the lights were turned up, and a gentle sigh of content escaped her. No other box party presented a more distinguished appearance than hers, and again she heaved a sigh of content; inviting Ethel Ogden to spend the winter with her had indeed been a clever inspiration. The girl’s beauty and lovable character had won her place and popularity in Washington’s cosmopolitan society, and Mrs. Ogden’s card tray was the richer by her presence in their house. Mrs. Ogden was not adverse to receiving the entrée to exclusive homes by indirect means, if no better obtained, and she felt that her winter in Washington had not been misspent energy, and that some day she might hope to be a Personage.
But Mrs. Ogden’s social ambitions had received a rude setback on being informed that evening by her husband that Ethel Ogden had refused James Patterson. Patterson’s great wealth, his career in Congress, and his family connections made him one of the few real catches in the National Capital, and Mrs. Ogden had preened herself on receiving him on an intimate footing in her house. All her plans had worked out serenely until Julian Barclay’s arrival, and at the thought Mrs. Ogden’s face hardened. Inviting him had not, decidedly not, been an inspiration. Come to think of it he had more or less invited himself; if it had not been for a letter from California stating he was coming east and might stop in Washington, she would never have written urging him to visit them. Such being the case, perhaps it would not be a great breach of hospitality to suggest that he curtail his visit? Two weeks had slipped by, but she had mentioned a month! This time Mrs. Ogden’s sigh was distinctly audible, and brought Barclay’s wandering attention back to her.