Chick stopped short and gazed up at the door.
“By Jove, this must be Don Barclay,” he muttered. “It’s not likely that there are two artists by that name. I’ve not seen him for years. I’ll take a chance that I’m right and will meet an old friend.”
He mounted the steps and rang the bell. A butler admitted him and vanished with his card on a silver tray. Presently, with hurried steps that evinced a very genuine eagerness, a well-built, handsome man in a velvet jacket rushed into the room, with eyes and cheeks aglow and his hands extended in cordial greeting.
“Holy smoke, Chick Carter! The one and only Chick himself!” he shouted. “Gracious, but I’m glad to see you! How the dickens came you here? You’re not after me, are you?”
Chick laughed, and returned the speaker’s cordial greeting.
“No, indeed, Don, nothing like that,” he replied. “I’m in Madison on other business. I was passing this house only by chance, and I saw your door plate.”
“Thank Heaven, you didn’t overlook it!”
“And it occurred to me that we have not met for three years——”
“Four, you rascal!” Barclay cut in boisterously. “It was on a boxing night at the Hudson Athletic Club. I remember it perfectly.”
“That’s right, Don.”