Commodore and had their baggage sent there, having agreed to postpone looking for a permanent place to live until Dudley returned from the office the following day. He was anxious to discover just what his status was at Drake and Porter's.
It was rather an anxious young newly married man who disembarked from the subway express at Wall Street promptly at nine the next morning. Dudley waited outside his uncle's private sanctum until the secretary opened the door noiselessly and pattered over the thick carpet with her book laden with the morning's dictation and disappeared into the main office. Sanford Drake, pompous, white-haired but ruddy-faced from large doses of golf, was lighting a fresh cigar as his nephew entered. He accepted Dudley's hand and shook it non-committedly. Dudley took the chair next to his desk.
"Well, you're back, eh? Married, I believe you said over the phone. Girl you met in Paris?"
"Yes."
"H'm. French girl—American?"
"No, Spanish. Carmelita de Cordoba was my wife's maiden name."
"Any relation to de Cordoba, the South American banking man, the fellow Hodge and Story are agents for?"
