forth again, petulantly: "I don't see why I couldn't have asked for Mrs. Peter Brown, or Mrs. Reginald Vere de Vere!" Another pause. "Why on earth do they go to the Silverbrand, anyway? Talk about the total depravity of inanimate things!"
Moodily pacing to and fro, contemplating the miscarriage of his hopes, Jordan had almost lost consciousness of his wife's presence, when a timid voice broke the gloomy silence:
"Ellery."
He halted, looking at her without expectation.
"I—I'm afraid I don't know what it was you meant to do to-night. I know" hastily—"you told me, but I don't understand business very well, and it didn't occur to me that it was anything I'd ever have a hand in. But I'm not really stupid, and if you'll tell me again—Please, dear!"
"It doesn't make any difference—"
"But I want to know! I'm your wife, dear, and I do want to understand!"
"Very well. It's about the patents Welles wants for the Boltwoods. We don't need them; they do. They have some we do need." He did not intend that his explanation should lack cordiality, but at that moment he could have narrated the story of Israel's captivity with equal enthusiasm, and every perfunctory word fell on her ear like a reproach. "As long as Boltwood was alive, Bowers would have starved rather than buy directly of him, but he did try at one time to obtain possession of them indirectly. Boltwood then hoped to use them himself, and wouldn't sell. Welles sees that our patents are more valuable to them than those they hold will ever be. Because he's my friend, I could make a better deal with him than any one else in our concern. My scheme was to get Mr. Bowers here to dinner, and when he got to feeling good and amiable over the cigars, to tell him that I could get the Boltwood patents. I happen to know that our possession of them would straighten out some difficulties in the mechanical department which threaten to be mighty troublesome and expensive."
"And then you thought he'd offer you the partnership?"
"No; Bowers isn't giving away partnerships. My purpose was to acquire the Boltwood patents myself from Welles, and then to offer them to Mr. Bowers in payment—or part payment—for my stock and for the patents Welles wants, which are absolutely useless to us."
"Oh, I see. How silly, if he needs the patents, to let a personal quarrel with a man who's dead—Mr. Bowers's temper must have cost him something before now."
"Thousands."
"Then I suppose it's no use hoping—" The half-formed thought behind the words gave place to one of sturdier growth, and the sentence remained incomplete. Presently she spoke again, her eyelids slightly contracted over unseeing eyes, her perceptions focussed inward.
"His name's too long. What does she call him?"
"Who?" Jordan's mind was still pursuing the path of his frustrated hopes.
"Mrs. Welles."
"Oh, she probably calls him Cass. Most people do."
She caught her breath and stood for an instant poising on tiptoe, aglow with inspiration.
"Ellery! I—I believe it's possible! Did Mr. Bowers ever see Lancaster Welles?"
"Not that I know of."
"Nor Mrs. Welles?"
"Guess not."
"Then—don't you see?—we must simply keep the conversation in such channels that he won't find us out. Welles is not an uncommon name, and Lancaster Welles is the last man Mr. Bowers would expect to meet at our table. Do you suppose—no," swiftly deciding,—"it wouldn't do to tell the Welleses. We can't let them know that the invitation was a mistake, or that their presence is in any way embarrassing. I thought once of sending word that I was ill and couldn't receive them, but—that wouldn't do. In the first place, I hate to lie, and in the second, they'd see through it. We must simply let them all come, keep the conversation in our own hands, and dodge personalities."
Her husband regarded her speculatively. "It will be a bit like playing with dynamite; but, by George! Louise," his glance kindled, "I believe you can
