“Some spender,” Weems commented. “Who’s the funny old dodger with him? Some other millionaire I suppose.”
“I’ll tell him that next time I see him,” laughed Trent beholding Crosbeigh, Crosbeigh who looked wise where vintages were discussed and knew not one from another. A well-dressed man paused at Warren’s side and Weems, always anxious to acquire information, begged his guest to be silent.
“Did you get that?” he asked when the man had moved away.
“I don’t make it a habit to listen to private conversations,” Trent returned stiffly.
“Well I do,” said Weems unabashed. “If I hadn’t I shouldn’t have got in on this Steel stuff. I’m a great little listener. That fellow who spoke is Reginald Camplyn, the man who drives a coach and four and wins blue ribbons at the horse show. Warren asked him to a dinner here to-morrow night at half past eight in honor of some horse who’s done a fast trial.” Weems made an entry in his engagement book.
“Are you going, too?” Trent demanded.
“I’m putting down the plug’s name,” said Weems, “Sambo,” he said. “That’s no name for a thoroughbred. Say couldn’t you introduce me?”
“I don’t know him,” Trent asserted.
“You know the man with him. That’s enough for me. If you do it right the other fellow’s bound to introduce you. Then you beckon me over and we’ll all sit down together.”
“That isn’t my way of doing things,” replied Trent with a frown.