“Here’s a dollar,” said Mr. Wellaway. “Now, can you tell me the name of that man—the man who drove up with me?”
“No, sir,” said the cabman; “I don’t know what his name is.”
“I just wanted to know,” said Mr. Wellaway.
When he entered the club-house his host was alone.
“You wanted to telephone,” he said to Mr. Wellaway. “There’s the booth. It’s a money-in-the-slot machine. I’ll get a greens-ticket and a bag of clubs for you while you are in there, and we will not lose any time. When you come out, come up to the locker-room.”
Mr. Wellaway entered the booth and closed the door. He called for his number and waited while the connection was made. It was hot in the booth with the door closed, but not for the world would Mr. Wellaway have opened it.
“Hello, is that you, Mary?” he asked, when he had dropped the requisite coins in the slot at the request of the central. “This is Edgar. Yes. I’m out at Westcote, on Long Island. I’m going to play golf. I met a friend, and he insisted that I come out here and try his course. I say I met a friend. Yes, a friend. An old acquaintance. He lives out here.”
For a few seconds Mr. Wellaway listened.
“No, listen!” said Mr. Wellaway. “I don’t know what his name is, but I’ll find out. I just met him, you know, and he asked me, and I couldn’t say, ‘Thank you, I’ll accept; but what is your name?’ I couldn’t say that, could I? When he knew me so well? Oh, nonsense, Mary! I tell you it’s a man.”
As he listened to what Mary had to say to this, Mr. Wellaway sighed deeply.