He was dressed for the meeting, destined to take its place in American history. Above the table, in a niche and dominating the room, was a reproduction of the celebrated statue of Bussy d’Ambois. The table itself was an antique piece of great value, once the property of Cardinal Mazarin. “Listen, Baby, I want to get this right.” Harvey Bragg stood up. “I’m all set, but I’m playing a part, and I’m not used to playing any part but the part of Harvey Bragg. Bring me into the party, Eileen. Nobody knows better than you. Lola is a hard case, but I guess you’re a regular kid.” Moya Adair, seated at the end of the table, raised her eyes to the speaker. “What do you want to know?” she asked. “I want to know”—Bragg came a step nearer, rested his hands on the table, and bent down—“I want to know if I’m being played for a sucker; because if I am, God help the man who figures to put that stuff over on me! I’ve had dough to burn for long enough—some I could check up and some from this invisible guy, the President.
