In the waiting room outside his father's office, Jay was hailed by an agreeable, vigorous voice and a bald, neatly barbered man of forty-five extended a broad, firm hand cordially, at the same time repeating Jay's name. Jay had no idea of his, but supposed that he had met the man with his father. Evidently this was a buyer, and an important buyer or he would not be in this inner room nor would Lowry, the salesmanager, be so full of fidgets because Jay had forgotten him.
"Mr. Metten and I were speaking of the round you shot at Skokie last summer with Melhorn—or was it Hagen?" Lowry said quickly, to supply Jay with the name.
He was Metten, of course; one of the Mettens, for there were two; a younger, fat brother and this one, Phil Metten. Jay shook hands and said it was Melhorn who had showed him up.
"Not at all," protested Metten. "You shot one beautiful game. Par, my God! A sandtrap is nothing to you. A birdie; an eagle; a birdie, you drop in a row like that! If just once I drop a birdie . . ."
Metten embarked upon a vivid description of his own game, gratified that Jay stood listening or seeming to listen. Actually, Jay's mind had gone again to New York and to Nucast who was paying him for marrying Lida.
He could put no other interpretation upon the message wired by Ralph last night. It could be no mere coinci-
