"But, Mildred, this is our last evening together," said Emerson, seriously. "Can't we have it alone?"
"I am afraid not. I had nothing to say in the matter. It is some business affair."
So the fellow was a business associate of the magnate, thought Boyd.
"Who is he?"
"He is merely—" Mildred paused to listen. "Here they are now. Please don't look so tragic, Othello."
Hearing voices outside the library, the young man asked, hurriedly:
"Give me some time alone with you, my Lady. I must leave early."
"We will come in here while they are smoking," she said.
There was time for no more, for Wayne Wayland entered, followed by another gentleman, at the first sight of whom Emerson started, while his mind raced off into a dizzy whirl of incredulity. It could not be! It was too grotesque—too ridiculous! What prank of malicious fate was this? He turned his eyes to the door again, to see if by any chance there were a third visitor, but there was not, and he was forced to respond to Mr. Wayland's greeting. The other man had meanwhile stepped directly to Mildred, as if he had eyes for no one else, and was bowing over her hand when her father spoke.
"Mr. Emerson, let me present you to Mr. Marsh. I believe you have never happened to meet here." Marsh turned as if reluctant to release the girl's hand, and not until his own was outstretched did he recognize the other. Even then he betrayed his recognition only by a slight lift of the eyebrows and an intensification of his glance.
The two mumbled the customary salutations while their eyes met. At their first encounter Boyd had considered Marsh rather indistinct in type, but with a lover's jealousy he now beheld a rival endowed with many disquieting attributes.
"You two will get along famously," said Mr. Wayland. "Mr. Marsh is acquainted with your country, Boyd."