“Murchison?” said Mr. Wellaway, blankly. “Not the—not the Murchison? Not Roger P. Murchison, the advertising agent, the publicity man?”
“Of course,” said Mr. Wellaway’s host. For a full minute Mr. Wellaway stared at Mr. Murchison.
“I know,” said Mr. Wellaway. “You eat at the Fifth Avenue! You sit by the palm just to the left of the third window every noon.”
“By George!” exclaimed Mr. Murchison. “I knew your face was familiar. And you sit at the end table right by the first window. Why, I’ve seen you there every day for a year.”
“Of course you have,” said Mr. Wellaway, cheerfully. “That explains everything. It makes it all as simple as—” His face fell suddenly. “But it doesn’t make it any easier about Mary.”
Mr. Murchison might have said that Mary was none of his concern, but he creased his brow in thought.
“Sarah,” he said at length, “run up-stairs and telephone Mrs. Wellaway that her husband is here. Tell her he means to stay over Sunday, and that he wants her to hire a taxicab and come out immediately and stay over Sunday. Tell her our game of golf was a tie, and I insist that Mr. Wellaway play off the tie to-morrow afternoon.”
Mrs. Murchison disappeared.
“And now,” said Mr. Murchison, genially, “you know my name, and you know my business, and I know your name, and everything is all right, and I’m mighty glad to know you as long as you are not a floor-walker. Oh, pardon me!” he added quickly, “you are not a floor-walker, are you? You didn’t say what your business was.”
Mr. Wellaway blushed.