" And there was a faint note of contempt in
his voice.
"Who would be the man to see in Washington?" Rodney inquired.
"I'll look it up and let you know. You might call me up to-morrow."
Old Terry, having got them together, went back to his billiards and
left them. Nolan sat down and picked up his paper, with an air of
ending the interview. But he put it down again as Rodney turned to
leave the room.
"Page!"
"Yes?"
"D'you mind having a few minutes talk?"
Rodney braced himself.
"Not at all."
But Nolan was slow to begin. He sat, newspaper on his knee, his
deep-set eyes thoughtful. When he began it was slowly.
"I am one of Clay Spencer's oldest friends," he said. "He's a
white man, the whitest man I know. Naturally, anything that touches
him touches me, in a way."
"Well?"
"The name stands for a good bit, too. His father and his grandfather
were the same sort. It's not often in this town that we have three
generations without a breath of scandal against them.
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