A weekor two had passed, when one day Oliver called his brother on the 'phone. “Have you or Alice any engagement this evening?” he asked. “I want to bring a friend around to dinner.” “Who is it?” inquired Montague.
“Nobody you have heard of,” said Oliver. “But I want you to meet him. You will think he's rather queer, but I will explain to you afterwards. Tell Alice to take my word for him.”
Montague delivered the message, and at seven o'clock they went downstairs. In the reception room they met Oliver and his friend, and it was all that Montague could do to repress a look of consternation.
The name of the personage was Mr. Gamble. He was a little man, a trifle over five feet high, and so fat that one wondered how he could get about alone; his chin and neck were a series of rolls of fat. His face was round like a full moon, and out of it looked two little eyes like those of a pig. It was only after studying them for a while that one discovered that they twinkled shrewdly.
Mr. Gamble was altogether the vulgarest-looking personage that Alice Montague had ever met. He put out a fat little hand to her, and she touched it gingerly, and then gazed at Oliver and his brother in helpless dismay.
“Good evening. Good evening,” he began volubly. “I am charmed to meet you. Mr. Montague, I have heard so much about you from your brother that I feel as if we were old friends.”
There was a moment's pause. “Shall we go into the dining-room?” asked Montague.
He did not much relish the stares which would follow them, but he could see no way out of the difficulty. They went into the room and seated themselves, Montague wondering in a flash whether Mr. Gamble's arms would be long enough to reach to the table in front of him.
“A warm evening,” he said, puffing slightly. “I have been on the train all day.”
“Mr. Gamble comes from Pittsburg,” interposed Oliver.
“Indeed?” said Montague, striving to make conversation. “Are you in business there?”
“No, I am out of business,” said Mr. Gamble, with a smile. “Made my pile, so to speak, and got out. I want to see the world a bit before I get too old.”
The waiter came to take their orders; in the meantime Montague darted an indignant glance at his brother, who sat and smiled serenely. Then Montague caught Alice's eye, and he could almost hear her saying to him, “What in the world am I going to talk about?”
But it proved not very difficult to talk with the gentleman from Pittsburg. He appeared to know all the gossip of the Metropolis, and he cheerfully supplied the topics of conversation. He had been to Palm Beach and Hot Springs during the winter, and told about what he had seen there; he was going to Newport in the summer, and he talked about the prospects there. If he had the slightest suspicion of the fact that all his conversation was not supremely interesting to Montague and his cousin, he gave no hint of it.
After he had disposed of the elaborate dinner which Oliver ordered, Mr. Gamble proposed that they visit one of the theatres. He had a box all ready, it seemed, and Oliver accepted for Alice before Montague could say a word for her. He spoke for himself, however,—he had important work to do, and must be excused.
He went upstairs and shook off his annoyance and plunged into his work. Sometime after midnight, when he had finished, he went out for a breath of fresh air, and as he returned he found Oliver and his friend standing in the lobby of the hotel.
“How do you do, Mr. Montague?” said Gamble. “Glad to see you again.”
“Alice has just gone upstairs,” said Oliver. “We were going to sit in the cafe awhile. Will you join us?”
“Yes, do,” said Mr. Gamble, cordially.
Montague went because he wanted to have a talk with Oliver before he went to bed that night.
“Do you know Dick Ingham?” asked Mr. Gamble, as they seated themselves at a table.
“The Steel man, you mean?” asked Montague. “No, I never met him.”
“We were talking about him,” said the other. “Poor chap—it really was hard luck, you know. It wasn't his fault. Did you ever hear the true story?”
“No,” said Montague, but he knew to what the other referred. Ingham was one of the “Steel crowd,” as they were called, and he had been president of the Trust until a scandal had forced his resignation.
“He is an old friend of mine,” said Gamble; “he told me all about it. It began in Paris—some newspaper woman tried to blackmail him, and he had her put in jail for three months. And when she got out again, then the papers at home began to get stories about poor Ingham's cutting up. And the public went wild, and they made him resign—just imagine it!”
Gamble chuckled so violently that he was seized by a coughing spell, and had to signal for a glass of water.
“They've got a new scandal on their hands now,” said Oliver.
“They're a lively crowd, the Steel fellows,” laughed the other. “They want to make Davidson resign, too, but he'll fight them. He knows too much! You should hear his story!”
“I imagine it's not a very savoury one,” said Montague, for lack of something to say.
“It's too bad,” said the other, earnestly. “I have talked to them sometimes, but it don't do any good. I remember Davidson one night: 'Jim,' says he, 'a fellow gets a whole lot of money, and he buys him everything he wants, until at last he buys a woman, and then his trouble begins. If you're buying pictures, there's an end to it—you get your walls covered sooner or later. But you never can satisfy a woman.'” And Mr. Gamble shook his head. “Too bad, too bad,” he repeated.
“Were you in the steel business yourself?” asked Montague, politely.
“No, no, oil was my line. I've been fighting the Trust, and last year they bought me out, and now I'm seeing the world.”
Mr. Gamble relapsed into thought............