It was on Tuesday afternoon, and he sat in the box of Mrs. Venable, a sister-in-law of the Major. The Major, who was a care-free bachelor, was there himself, and also Betty Wyman, who was making sprightly comments on the passers-by; and there strolled into the box Chappie de Peyster, accompanied by a young lady.
So many people had stopped and been introduced and then passed on, that Montague merely glanced at her once. He noticed that she was tall and graceful, and caught her name, Miss Hegan.
The turnouts in the ring consisted of one horse harnessed in front of another; and Montague was wondering what conceivable motive could induce a human being to hitch and drive horses in that fashion. The conversation turned upon Miss Yvette, who was in the ring; and Betty remarked upon the airy grace with which she wielded the long whip she carried. “Did you see what the paper said about her this morning?” she asked. “‘Miss Simpkins was exquisitely clad in purple velvet,’ and so on! She looked for all the world like the Venus at the Hippodrome!”
“Why isn’t she in Society?” asked Montague, curiously.
“She!” exclaimed Betty. “Why, she’s a travesty!”
There was a moment’s pause, preceding a remark by their young lady visitor. “I’ve an idea,” said she, “that the real reason she never got into Society was that she was fond of her old father.”
And Montague gave a short glance at the speaker, who was gazing fixedly into the ring. He heard the Major chuckle, and he thought that he heard Betty Wyman give a little sniff. A few moments later the young lady arose, and with some remark to Mrs. Venable about how well her costume became her, she passed on out of the box.
“Who is that?” asked Montague.
“That,” the Major answered, “that’s Laura Hegan—Jim Hegan’s daughter.”
“Oh!” said Montague, and caught his breath. Jim Hegan—Napoleon of finance—czar of a gigantic system of railroads, and the power behind the political thrones of many states.