The manager, a powerful-looking man dressed with the precision of
the prosperous city magnate, came out of his office to greet
them.
"What can I do for you, gentlemen?" he enquired.
"First of all," Francis replied, "accept our heartiest
congratulations upon your wonderful gymnasium."
The man bowed.
"It is the best appointed in the country, sir," he said proudly.
"Absolutely no expense has been spared in fitting it up. Every
one of our appliances is of the latest possible description, and
our bathrooms are an exact copy of those in a famous Philadelphia
club."
"What is the subscription?" Wilmore asked.
"Five shillings a year."
"And how many members?"
"Two thousand."
The manager smiled as he saw his two visitors exchange puzzled
glances.
"Needless to say, sir," he added, "we are not self-supporting.
We have very generous patrons."
"I lave heard my brother speak of this place as being quite
wonderful," Wilmore remarked, "but I had no idea that it was upon
this scale."
"Is your brother a member?" the man asked.
"He is. To tell you the truth, we came here to ask you a
question about him."
"What is his name?"
"Reginald Wilmore. He was here, I think, last Wednesday night."
While Wilmore talked, Francis watched. He was conscious of a
curious change in the man's deportment at the mention of Reginald
Wilmore's name.
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