"They don't quite agree for the moment," observed Pete.
"They don't agree at all," I declared, excessively.
"No? Then why's she here? It's his house. Why'd she sit for the dummy?"
Someone knocked at our door—a subdued, respectful rap. We waited a moment; then Pete called, "Come in."
It was a valet with clothes for us.
They were lounging suits for a warm, June noonday; the valet laid them out and deferentially offered to help us change.
"I'm to tell you, sirs," he informed us, "luncheon will be served on the terrace in an hour."
"Oh," said Pete. "We're expected for luncheon?"
"Oh, yes, sir."
"Who invited us?"
"Mr. Bane, sir."
"Who's Mr. Bane?"
"Why, sir, Mr. Bane is the master here."
"What is his business?" Pete put to the valet directly.
