He even strolled through the library to the open door of Bassett's private room beyond.

The map of Indiana suspended above Bassett's desk interested him and he stood leaning on his stick and surveying it.

There was something the least bit insinuating in his manner.

The room, the map, the fact that Morton Bassett of Fraserville had, so to speak, planted a vedette in the heart of the capital, seemed to afford him mild, cynical amusement.

He drew his hand across his face, twisted his mustache, and took the cigar from his mouth and examined the end of it with fictitious interest.
"Well," he ejaculated, "damn it all, why not ?" Harwood did not know why not; but a man as rich as Edward Thatcher was entitled to his vagaries.