“No, it is not funny that I don’t know his name,” he said. “You know I can’t remember names, and I know thousands of men, and speak to them, and can’t recall their names. Listen! There’s no reason in the world for your jealousy to get stirred up. Not the least. I’ll know his name inside half an hour, and if you are going to act that way about it, I’ll telephone you the minute I learn it. Yes, I will! Well, that’s all right, too; but since you take that attitude, I’m going to telephone you. Good-by.” He waited half a minute for an answering “Good-by,” and then hung up the receiver softly. Mary’s jealousy was a real annoyance. Mr. Wellaway stepped out of the booth and wiped his forehead.
The small sitting-room of the club was deserted. In the adjacent butler’s pantry he could hear the steward at work, and above the low ceiling he could hear his host changing his shoes. On the bulletin-board, among the announcements of competitions and new rules, was a list of members posted for dues or house-accounts. It was a very short list, and Mr. Wellaway recognized none of the names. On the opposite wall was a framed list of the club-members, perhaps one hundred and twenty-five, and Mr. Wellaway ran his eye down them. Only one of the names was familiar, that of George C. Rogers, and the host was not Rogers, for Mr. Wellaway knew Rogers well. Not another name was even faintly familiar. Mr. Wellaway was still poring over the list when his host descended the stairs.
“I see,” said Mr. Wellaway, “that George Rogers is a member of the club.”
“That so?” said his host. “I don’t know him. I don’t know many of the fellows yet. Rankin and Mallows are putting me up for membership, but I’m playing on a temporary card until the next meeting of the board of governors. They say there’s no doubt I’ll be admitted; but I don’t take chances. I pay as I go until I’m a full member. When I’m in, I’ll sign checks like the rest of them; but until I am in, I’ll pay cash. Now, you run up and shuck your coat, if you want to, while I get you a bag of clubs and a greens-ticket. I left my locker open—Number 43.”
Mr. Wellaway ascended the stairs. All about the locker-room were the lockers, two high, and on each was the name of the holder. The door of 43 stood open, and Mr. Wellaway darted for it, and looked for the name of his host. There was no name on the locker.
Drawn by Henry Raleigh
“‘NOW, CAN YOU TELL ME THE NAME OF THAT MAN—THE MAN WHO DROVE UP WITH ME?’”
III
IN the locker was the usual accumulation of golfer’s odds and ends. A few badly scarred golf-balls lay on the floor, along with a pair of winter golf-shoes. A couple of extra clubs stood in one corner. A sweater hung from a hook, and from another hook hung the coat and waistcoat his host had just removed. From one pocket, the inside pocket, of the coat protruded the tops of three or four letters. Mr. Wellaway stared at the letters and perspired profusely. He had only to put out his hand and raise the letters partly from the pocket to know the name of his host. Then he could make an excuse to telephone his wife again. Assuredly there was nothing dishonorable in merely glancing at the address of the letters. But he stood very still and listened intently before he put out his hand. He could hear the soft tread of rubber-soled shoes on the floor below. Very gently Mr. Wellaway raised the letters from the pocket just as he heard the rubber-soled shoes touch the zinc treads of the stairs. He slid the letters back into the pocket in a panic, and jerked off his coat, but he had seen the address of the outermost letter. It was an unmailed letter, and it was addressed to “Mrs. Edgar Wellaway, Rimmon Apartments, West End Avenue, New York.”