“You don’t mean it, do you?” said Dudley, clearly disappointed. “A fellow can’t drink alone, don’t you know? Take a soda or a sarsaparilla—anything, just to seem social.”
The dapper young man did not appear inclined to be easily shaken off.
Vance hesitated, and Dudley, taking advantage of his momentary indecision, pressed him so strongly that the boy, not wishing to appear rude, agreed to accompany his undesirable acquaintance across the street to the swell establishment known as the Criterion.
“I’ve only just come to town,” said Guy Dudley as they ranged up alongside the mahogany bar, rather an unusual experience for Vance, who never frequented such places in Chicago. “You see, the governor, my father, you know, has a big interest in one of the flour mills out here, and as he couldn’t come himself, he sent me to look after a matter of importance which affects his control of the business.”
Vance nodded politely.
“I s’pose you’re here on business connected with your boss, Whitemore, eh?”
The speaker’s sharp eyes glinted curiously.
“What makes you think so?” asked Vance cautiously.
“Why, what else should bring you to Kansas City?”
“There might be several reasons other than what you suggested,” said Vance, sparring for a valid excuse to throw Guy Dudley off the track. “My father had business interests here before he died which were never settled.”