As Paget turned away from Steuben, a solemn-faced man whom he did not recognize walked by. He wondered if this could be the individual who had been in the room the day before.
Paget strolled about the club for more than an hour. He appeared languorous and entirely disinterested in the surroundings. Actually, he was watching for some one; and he was sitting in the lobby when the expected individual arrived.
A short, dark-complexioned man came into the Merrimac Club. He walked with an air of importance, and he seemed to express self-satisfaction in every mannerism. He had a businesslike stride; he stared straight ahead.
His keen eyes, his thin, straight lips, and his carefully pointed moustache, added to his expression of superiority. He did not see Paget until the latter greeted him.
“Hello, Wilbur,” drawled Paget, taking his cigarette holder from his lips. The newcomer stopped.
“Ah, Rodney,” he said. He extended his hand and Paget rose to meet him.
“Lunch together?” questioned Paget.
The man glanced at his watch.
“All right, Rodney,” he agreed. “I have an appointment at two. Just a bite, and then I’ll hurry on.”
THE man with whom Rodney Paget was lunching was Wilbur Blake, one of the wealthiest young men in New York. Blake was several years Paget’s junior. He had inherited millions, and moved in the most exclusive circles, and frequently traveled from New York.
He lived at Newport in the summer, and visited Florida in the winter. This was one of the intervals during which he lived in his palatial Long Island home.
Paget had known Blake since boyhood, and he had often wished to capitalize upon his acquaintance with the multimillionaire, but he had considered it the part of wisdom to desist.
Blake had ended several friendships because people had tried to take advantage of his wealth. Hence Paget seemed to avoid Blake rather than to seek his company. This attitude had brought results.
Rodney Paget was the one member of the Merrimac Club whom Wilbur Blake would have been willing to accept as an intimate friend.
The waiter took the order. Blake twisted the ends of his moustache and stared across the room.
Paget opened a drawling conversation, which resulted in Blake inviting Paget out to his country house.
Paget accepted.
While Blake ate hurriedly, Paget was leisurely. He watched his friend closely, as though interested in every action that Blake made.
The millionaire did not observe this. He was in a hurry to complete his meal. He finished long before Paget was through, and left the table with a brusque reminder that to-morrow noon his chauffeur would call for Paget.
Paget watched Blake as he left the dining room. Then, as the waiter was bringing dessert, the clubman inserted a cigarette in the long holder and puffed thoughtfully.
A vague semblance of a smile appeared upon his lips.
Later in the afternoon, Paget returned to his apartment and packed two large suitcases. When he had completed the operation, he entered the alcove and looked at the window shade. There he stood in prolonged indecision.
Finally he shrugged his shoulders and left the apartment. He went to the club and dined alone.
At eight o’clock, he strolled to the street and summoned a taxicab.
With all his languorous manner, Paget was secretly observant as the cab left the front of the club. He saw another cab move after him. He rubbed his chin and nodded to himself.
His cab reached the Pennsylvania Station. There, Paget threaded his way through the busy throng, and suddenly emerged at another entrance, where he hurried away in another cab.
This time, when he looked behind him, a smile of satisfaction appeared upon his face. He was confident that no taxi was on his trail.
Paget’s destination was a street in the Nineties, east of Lexington Avenue. There, he left the cab and walked several blocks, turning two or three corners.
He arrived at an old house that had been converted into an apartment. He slipped into the dingy vestibule and rang a bell. A whistle came from the speaking tube on the wall.
“Okay,” replied Paget.
The door clicked and the clubman entered. He went up two flights of stairs and tapped at a door in the corner. The door opened, and Paget entered. He was in a poorly furnished room. A single light gleamed from a table in the corner.
The only occupant was the man who had admitted Paget. This individual was obscured in the semidarkness. The occupant closed the door. Paget took a chair beside the table.
“Well?” questioned his host.
“It’s set,” replied Paget.
An exclamation of satisfaction came in reply.
“When?” asked the man.
“I don’t know,” answered Paget. “Soon, though.”
“It had better be soon!” retorted the man sullenly. “I’ve waited a long time. I’m broke. Owe them fifty dollars rent, among other things.”
“I’ll fix that,” said Paget easily.
“You’ve said that before. I’ve waited long enough.”
“You have to wait.” Paget spoke sharply now.
“I know that. You’ve got me where you want me. I can’t squawk. I’ve played the waiting game fair enough. But it gets tiresome. I want action.”
“How’s this?”
PAGET’S hand appeared in the light holding a roll of bills. The other man responded with a gasp of eagerness. He came forward and reached for the money. Paget let him take it.
The man dropped into a chair beside the table and counted off twenty-five ten-dollar bills. His hands moved excitedly.
When he had completed his counting of the currency, he raised his head, and for the first time his features were completely visible in the table light.
A sallow face, with quick, active eyes; thin lips beneath a moustache with pointed waxed ends. The features bore an almost identical resemblance to those of Wilbur Blake.
“A little less eagerness,” said Paget quietly. “It doesn’t go with the part.”
The man nodded. Then he gave a short laugh.
“The laugh can be improved,” added Paget. “Don’t use it often. Now try this. I’m making a hint that makes you suspect I want a favor from you.”
The man’s eyebrows crept close together. His eyes became fixed and steady. The expression on his face betrayed suspicion.
“Good,” said Paget. “Now try this one. I’ve fooled you, laying you open to an idea without you knowing it. For instance, I want to visit you. I’ve just told you that I’m not doing anything right now, and you’re thinking about inviting me out to see you.”
The man’s eyelids raised.
“That’s it,” declared Paget. “You’ve got it perfectly. I watched to-day, to make sure—”
The man smiled.
“Be on hand here, in the evenings,” Paget said.
“Right.”
“Above all—” The words suddenly froze on Paget’s lips. He was staring beyond his companion, gazing intently at the window. The man noticed his eyes and began to turn. Paget gripped his wrist and muttered without moving his lips.
“Look this way,” were Paget’s words. “Don’t turn.”
Paget’s lackadaisical manner returned instantly. His eyes shifted toward the floor, but they were still in the direction of the window. Paget inserted a cigarette in his ivory holder.
His companion thought he was no longer intent. Yet Paget had lost none of his alertness. He was watching something on his dim floor — a huge shadow that lay motionless, projecting inward from the window.
Paget’s eyes never left the floor. His companion wondered, but made no comment. Two minutes went by. The only action in the room was that of Paget’s hand as it lifted the cigarette holder to and from his lips.