“What do you want to sell me this time?” he demanded.
“Nothing,” Weems retorted, “I’m going to buy you the best little lunch that Manhattan has to offer. Anywhere you say and anything you like to eat and drink.” Weems stopped a cruising taxi. “Hop in, old scout, and tell the pirate where to go.”
Trent directed the man to one of the three famous and more or less exclusive restaurants New York possesses.
“I hope you have the price,” he commented, “otherwise I shall have to cash a check I’ve just received for a story.”
“Keep your old check,” jeered Weems, “I’m full of money. Why, boy, I own an estate and have a twelve-cylinder car of my own.”
Over the luncheon Horace Weems babbled cheerfully. He had made over three hundred thousand dollars and was on his way to millionairedom.
“You ought to see my place up in Maine,” he said presently.
“Maine?” queried his guest. It was in Maine that Anthony Trent, were he fortunate enough, would one day erect a camp. “Where?”
“On Kennebago lake,” Weems told him and stopped when an expression of pain crossed the other’s face. “What’s the matter? That sauce wrong?”
“Just sheer envy,” Trent admitted, “you’ve got what I want. I know every camp on the Lake. Which is it?”