Briggs was not long in bringing the visitor into the library.
Portersham got up and shook hands heartily with the ruddy, white-haired man who came forward with a springy step that was much younger than his appearance.
“Your cigar smells good,” laughed the senator. “May I have one?”
He took a cigar from the open humidor on the table, and, as he lighted it by the wax candle that burned beside it, remarked:
“Two things I have a weakness for—a good horse and a good cigar.”
Portersham nodded and smiled. He liked the free-and-easy manner of this important lawmaker, and he was glad he had come.
“What about a motor car, senator?” he asked, as his visitor took a chair. “It hasn’t knocked out the horse for you altogether, eh?”
“Not in the least,” was the positive reply. “You can’t pat the neck of a motor car. At least, unless you call the hood its neck. You can pat that, if you like. And, even then, the pesky thing does not acknowledge the caress. Now, a horse——”
At that moment the door clicked behind the retiring Briggs. The noise was slight, but a curious change came over Senator Garnford as he heard it. The smile left his face, his rather big body seemed to stiffen in his white suit, and his strong, white teeth bit into his cigar.
“No chance of our being overheard in this room, is there?” he asked, in a grave, sharp tone.