Clay Varron winked at Stanley Downs, and grinned pleasantly.
“I believe if I were in a shipwreck at night in the middle of the Atlantic, Moran would have my clothes laid out in regular order, so that I could be drowned properly dressed,” he said, with a chuckle. “Well, there’s nothing like doing your work right, whether you are President of the United States or a valet. Come on! We’ll get you out of those wet rags in two minutes, once you are in my room. Your chauffeur can look out for himself, I suppose?”
While Karl sought warmth and dry clothes in another part of the great, rambling hotel—finally bringing up with a chauffeur he knew—Stanley Downs went up to Clay Varron’s apartments.
Half an hour later, Stanley and Clay sat at the window of the private sitting room, which overlooked the lake from the second story, while Stanley told his story to Varron.
“There’s not much to it, Clay. You know Colonel Prentiss and some other men are managing this big automobile race for the Lawrence gold cup and a purse of twenty thousand dollars?”
“Of course I know it. Isn’t that one of the reasons I’m hustling back to New York? I want to hear what they think of the race at the Thracian—first-hand. It’s one week from to-day, isn’t it?”
“Yes.”
“And tickets are being taken up very fast, I’m told. I want to get parking space for two machines. Where’s the best place to look for the tickets? I’m told the new speedway will be a wonder. One man told me that there will be accommodation for nearly a hundred thousand people to see the races.”
“Pretty nearly that,” admitted Stanley. “You can get tickets in New York. I’ll manage that for you.”
“Why? Are you interested?” asked Clay Varron, rather surprised.