Hampstead answered it, stammered, faltered, replied: "I will see, sir, and call you in five minutes," hung up the 'phone and turned to confront Mitchell, with a look almost of fright upon his face.
"It's William N. Scofield," he exclaimed. "He wants me to take dinner with him at his club to-night."
A disbelieving smile appeared for a moment on the wide lips of Mitchell; then understanding broke, and his smile was swallowed up in a hearty laugh.
"He wants to offer you a position," Mitchell said, when his exultant cachinnations had ceased. "Look out that he doesn't win you. Scofield is a very persuasive man. He nearly got me once. Besides, he has more to offer you than I have."
Hampstead pressed his hand to his brow. Under his tawny thatch ideas were in a whirl.
"What shall I do?" he asked rather helplessly.
"Stay over," commanded Mitchell unhesitatingly. "Ring up and tell him you'll be there."
"But there's no use, anyway," replied John suddenly, getting back to the main point. "My mind's made up."
"No man's mind is made up when he's going to take dinner on the proposition with William N. Scofield," answered Mitchell oracularly.
"And you?" asked Hampstead, suddenly aware how good a man at heart was Robert Mitchell, and quite unaware that he had seized that gentleman's pudgy right hand and was wringing it in a manner most embarrassing to Mitchell himself. "You—"