But mainly she thought of John Dennis, the strange man who had walked in her door and to whom she had surrendered without a struggle.
My God. What happened to me? What happened to Rhoda Kane?
Abruptly she dropped the thought—it did not seem important.
Senator Crane sat in the dining room of the Mayflower Hotel. His guest was Matthew Porter, a mystery man, also, of the Brent Taber type, but a little more clearly defined in that he had a title and a department of government. But far more important to Crane, he outranked Taber.
One other point of importance: Matthew Porter was, in the terms even Senator Crane used, "something of a fathead."
"Maybe I am a Senator," Crane said jovially, "and maybe we boys up there think we have a hand in directing you fellows—still I'm flattered that you could find time to lunch with me."
Porter had a thin, aristocratic face, delicate features. His expression was usually benign, but there was steel behind it. He could scowl and hurl righteous invective, for instance, when a policeman questioned his right to park by a fireplug in spite of his official license plates.
But mainly he was a shy person who nursed his inferiority complex in secret.
"That's very flattering, Senator. But the truth is quite the opposite. It's we fellows who are honored to put ourselves at your beck and call. After all, you're the ones the people elect to office."