"Of course," he said, correcting himself. "One of my friends was present. The Cheevers play a good game, a well-united game, and have an unusual system of makes. They are very successful—let it go at that. You don’t mean to say that Majendie’ll be here?" "I expect him." "He was a friend of the dad’s—a corker, too. I don’t know much about those things, but isn’t he supposed to be up against it?" Three knocks in close succession sounded on the outer door, and Garraboy entered with an air of familiarity that was displeasing to the younger man. The two saluted impertinently, with polite antagonism, detesting each other from the first look. "Go on with the candles, Teddy," said Mrs. Kildair, signaling to the newcomer, a young man of forty who seemed to have been born bald, wrinkled, and heavy-eyed. The long, bald head on the thin, straight little body, and the elongated white collar, gave him somewhat the look of an interrogation-mark. He was heavily perfumed. "What’s the news of the market?" she asked. "Another odd turn—went up a couple of points," he said, looking at her hand. Unlike Beecher, he had instantly noted the new acquisition with a malicious smile. His thumb gave a little jerk and he added softly: "Something new?" "Yes. Why should the market go up?" she said, seeming to be intent only on the effect of the bracketed candles, that now licked the tapestried walls with their restless tongues. "There’s a general belief that a group of the big fellows will stand behind the trust companies in return for certain concessions. I say," he continued, watching the ruby ring, which instinctively she tried to conceal from him, "I hope Elise isn’t going to make a fool of herself about Majendie." "Teddy, Teddy, you’ve forgotten the two over the plaque!" she said aloud—and, a little lower: "She won’t; don’t fear." "I know her better," he said, without, however, betraying the slightest brotherly agitation. "She is apt to do something crazy if anything went wrong with Majendie. Bloodgood’s a hard-skinned old brute, but if there was anything public he’d cut up ugly." "I hear he’s in the market." "Yes—on the short side, too—in deep." "And you?" He shrugged his shoulders. "I thought we never told secrets, Mrs. Kildair. Who else is coming? Am I representing the element of respectability again tonight?" "The what?" She looked at him steadily until he turned away nervously, with the unease of an animal. "Don’t be an ass with me, my dear Garraboy." "By George," he said irritably, "if this were Europe I’d wager you were in the Secret Service, Mrs. Kildair." "Thank you," she said, smiling appreciatively, and returned toward young Beecher, who was waiting by the piano with ill-concealed resentment.