said to have had.

Bassett asked Dan to accompany him and Marian to the Country Club for
dinner one evening while Harwood still waited for Mrs. Owen's summons to
Montgomery. Picking up Marian at Miss Waring's, they drove out early and
indulged in a loitering walk along the towpath of the old canal, not
returning to the clubhouse until after seven. When they had found a
table on the veranda, Dan turned his head slightly and saw Thatcher,
Allen, and Pettit, the Fraserville editor, lounging in after-dinner ease
at a table in a dim corner.

"Why, there's Mr. Thatcher," exclaimed Marian.

"And if that isn't Mr. Pettit! I didn't know he ever broke into a place
like this."

They all bowed to the trio. Thatcher waved his hand.

"Mr. Pettit," observed Bassett dryly, "is a man of the world and likely
to break in anywhere."

His manner betrayed no surprise; he asked Marian to order dinner, and
bowed to a tableful of golfers, where an acquaintance was whispering his
name to some guests from out of town.

It was the least bit surprising that the Honorable Isaac Pettit should
be dining at the Country Club with Mr. Edward Thatcher, and yet it was
possible to read too much seriousness into the situation. Harwood was
immensely interested, but he knew it was Bassett's way to betray no
trepidation at even such a curious conjunction of planets as this. Dan
was in fact relieved that Bassett had found the men together: Bassett
had seen with his own eyes and might make what he pleased of this sudden
intimacy.

Marian had scorned the table d'hote dinner, and was choosing, from the
"special" offerings, green turtle soup and guinea fowl, as affording a
pleasant relief from the austere regimen of Miss Waring's table. The
roasting of the guinea hen would require thirty minutes the waiter
warned them, but Bassett made no objection. Marian thereupon interjected
a postscript of frogs' legs between soup and roast, and Bassett
cheerfully acquiesced.

"You seem to be picking the most musical birds offered," he remarked
amiably. "I don't believe I'd eat the rest of the olives if I were you."

"Why doesn't Allen Thatcher come over here and speak to us, I'd like to
know," asked Marian. "You wouldn't think he'd ever seen us before."

The three men having dined had, from appearances, been idling at the
table for some time. Pettit was doing most of the talking, regaling his
two auditors with tales from his abundant store of anecdotes. At the end