Chapter IV: Part 4

Reporters had immediately set out in relentless pursuit and had routed the Mayor out of bed at his house between twelve and one o'clock and obtained a brief interview; the substance of which was that the public interest of the city demanded the improved conditions which the new law would insure, and that he was proud to complete with his approval the public-spirited action of the Councilmen in passing it.

The rest was mere rumour and speculation, interlarded with many prudent "it is said's," but it seemed that some if not all of it must have been inspired by the Mayor. "It was said" that an important representative of the Traction interests had seen Senator Norman in his rooms at the Hotel De Soto early in the evening and pleaded with him the cause of the interested bondholders and stockholders, whose investments would be imperilled by the changes involved, but that he had stood firm on the ground of the public welfare. "It was said," too, that later Mayor Black had had a long conference with the Senator--well, it _had_ been rather long,--and that they had agreed that the interests of the plain people of Chicago must at all costs decide the issue. "It was said," finally, that both Senator Norman and Mayor Black would probably join forces with the Reform League, whose program they had finally so powerfully supported, in demanding and obtaining other needed improvements in municipal conditions.

From all of which it seemed to be clear that the Mayor, having taken an hour or so to think over the situation in which he found himself, had become convinced of the soundness of Aunt Mary's logic and had decided, without waiting for any further communication from the Norman camp, to claim the credit for the Ordinance and appeal for popular support thereon, taking care, however, to involve Senator Norman's name so that the real Norman should be compelled to join forces with him in his new departure.

By the time the column of news and comment and a brief and cautious editorial on the occurrence had been read out by Alicia and one or two other papers glanced at, Simpson had set up and laid his table and had his first course served. He respectfully approached and inquired if they were ready for breakfast.

"Certainly!" said Aunt Mary.

Merriam looked at his watch. It was half past eight.

"I ought to send my telegram to Riceville first," he said, "to let them know I shall be there on the noon train."

"After the grapefruit," said Aunt Mary, with a decided note in her voice which led Merriam to look at her inquiringly.

But he desired to exhibit the coolness of a man of the world, to whom telegrams were customary incidents of daily living and who habitually ran close to the wind in the matter of trains. So he acquiesced with a bookish "As you please," and moved with the others to the table.

Simpson had decorated the center of the board with one of the hotel's slim glass vases holding a couple of pink carnations. Mollie June regarded this ornament with disfavour.

"Let's have the roses instead, Mr. John," she said.

And Merriam, to the scandal of Simpson, himself removed the carnations and set the bowl of roses in their place.

They said little over the grapefruit. Alicia added a few humorous comments on points in the newspaper article, but Aunt Mary was divided between an anxious absent-mindedness and a curious questioning scrutiny of Merriam, and Merriam was distracted between a suppressed worry over his telegram and approaching train time and the delight of stolen glances at--Mrs. Senator Norman. As for Mrs. Senator Norman, she devoted herself chiefly to the fruit. Once or twice, in looking up, she almost unavoidably intercepted one of Merriam's guilty glances. When this happened, she met his eyes frankly but with a gravity that was pathetically, forgivingly rebuking.

Presently Simpson was removing the fruit rinds and placing finger bowls. Merriam looked quickly at his watch again and spoke to the waiter:

"Bring me a telegraph form, please."

Aunt Mary's absent-mindedness instantly vanished.

"What message are you going to send?" she asked in a restrained voice.

"Missed night train. Will arrive at noon."

"No!" said Aunt Mary. "Mr. Merriam," she pursued quickly, "until George is brought back here you must stay. After all this in the papers this morning there will be scores of people to see him to-day. He is known to be a late riser and never sees any one before ten or they would have been here before this. In a very few minutes they will begin to come. We will put off most of them, of course. But there are likely to be some whom we can't put off. We can't tell where George is, and we can't say we don't know where he is, and there will be one or two to whom we can't say we won't tell where he is. We must have you in reserve. You shall go to bed in George's room, ill with--with--lumbago. Dr. Hobart will attend you. When absolutely necessary we can show a man into the room, and you can say a few words. I will tell you what to say in each case. You can have your head half way under the covers, and can make your voice weak and husky. You will be safe enough from detection. Then by this evening at the latest we shall bring George back, and you can go down to Riceville on the night train. You will only have missed one day, and you will have saved us from a most serious dilemma."

There was an appeal in the elderly woman's voice to which Merriam was not insensible, though the pull of habitual regularity at his school was strong in him.

It is to be feared that Alicia spoiled Aunt Mary's effect. Across the table from Merriam, she was partly hidden from him by the flowers. But she leaned forward, bringing her face almost beside the roses, and spoke in her most honeyed tones:

"Oh, do, Mr. Merriam! How can you resist it?" she added. "If I were a man and had the chance to be Mollie June's husband even for a day----"

She stopped with her archest smile.

Mollie June, with possibly the slightest augmentation of colour, brought forward a practical argument.

"Since you will miss the morning anyway, it won't much matter if you miss the whole day. You haven't but one class in the afternoon, have you?"

"Only senior algebra," said Merriam.

"Miss Eldon can take that."

"I suppose she could," said Merriam, who was realising that on this particular day advanced algebra would be to him the most distasteful of all branches of human learning.

"Then you'll stay and help us--Mr. John!"

The reader will perceive that this simple appeal was really much superior to any which the too sophisticated and calculating Alicia could contrive. A touch of wistfulness came into Mollie June's face with the word "help." His high promise of the night before was irresistibly recalled. And "Mr. John" reminded him of the delightfulness of fresh water for roses and of the unconscious confession which her compromise name for him had implied. Alicia discreetly retired behind the roses, and Aunt Mary waited with lips somewhat grimly pursed.

Then, while Merriam hesitated, with his eyes on Mollie June's face--we must suppose that he was weighing her very practical argument,--the telephone rang.

Simpson, with telegraph blanks in his hand, answered it, and reported that Mr. Rockwell wished to speak to Senator Norman.

"This is--Norman," said Merriam cautiously into the telephone.

"Ah!" said Rockwell's voice. "Well, you'll be pleased to learn that you are quieter. You aren't seeing things any more." (I'm not sure of that, thought Merriam.) "But you, he has a severe cold--fever and a cough--touch of bronchitis, probably. Hobart says he can't possibly be moved till to-night. Anyway, I don't see how we could get him into the hotel till then. You must stay, Merriam."

"All right," said Merriam, surprising his interlocutor by his ready acquiescence, "I'll stay."

"Good! I'll be down at the hotel in half an hour." Rockwell rang off.

Merriam turned to face the three women.

When Aunt Mary heard the news about George, she held out her hand to Simpson for the telegraph forms and wrote.

In a moment she read:

"'Ill with a touch of bronchitis. Hope to be back to-morrow. John Merriam.' Will that do?"

"I suppose so," he assented.

His words were almost drowned by a loud knock at the door.

"Our day has begun," said Aunt Mary, rising with admirable composure. She handed the telegram to Simpson. "Send it at once. Into the bedroom, Mr. Merriam. Get into bed as soon as you can. You have bronchitis, you know,--not lumbago."

But before Merriam could obey the door was suddenly opened.

*CHAPTER XIII*

*A CHANGE OF MANAGEMENT*

The man who thus burst into Senator Norman's sitting room at nine o'clock in the morning without waiting for an invitation was an unpleasant but important personage--none other than J. J. Thompson (one never thought of calling him "Mr."), Norman's private political manager in all matters that involved handling the people's vote.

He was a short, stoutish, belligerent type, about forty-five, with thin, untidy hair, a thin, untidy moustache, and, somewhere between the moustache and the hair, a pair of small blue eyes, which seemed incapable of any other expressions than aggressiveness and anger. Senator Norman--the real Norman--had long found him nearly as disagreeable as the reader will find him, but so useful in many political contingencies that he had never been able to bring himself to dispense with him.

Having popped explosively into the room, Thompson stopped short at sight of the three women. For the first instant or two he did not notice Merriam, who had quietly slipped into the great armchair that faced the gas log, with his back almost squarely to the room.

"Good morning, Mr. Thompson," said Aunt Mary. "We were just having breakfast."

Alicia and Mollie June still sat at the table, and Simpson stood a little at one side. Thompson knew who the two girls were, and they knew who he was, but he had never been presented in Norman's family except to Miss Norman--a fact which he resented keenly,--so they did not speak. Alicia sat back in her chair and stared insolently, while Mollie June leaned forward and rearranged a rose in the bowl.

"I'm sorry to break in this way," Thompson said--even he was slightly abashed,--"but I've got to speak to the Senator."

"Come back a little later, Mr. Thompson," ventured Merriam in a hoarse whisper.

The "Mr." was a false note, and its effect was to anger Thompson.

"No!" he cried, the pugnacious gleam that was never far below the surface of his little eyes appearing in them. "I've got to speak to you now! I've got a right to!"

He advanced. He would have passed the table so as to approach Merriam. But there was only a narrow space on either side of it, and in one of those avenues stood Simpson behind Alicia, while Aunt Mary had quietly moved into the other, standing with her hand on the back of the chair in which Merriam had been sitting. So Thompson found himself barricaded, as it were, and stopped short and shouted across the table and over the head of Mollie June.

"What in--what's the meaning of all this--this stuff in the papers?"

Thompson's difficulty in expressing himself under the handicap of the interdiction against profanity imposed by the presence of the women was a trifle ludicrous. But his tone and manner were almost as bad as an oath would have been.

Alicia's eyebrows rose. She rose herself.

"Perhaps we had better withdraw," she said.

If Merriam, who had never seen her in any other than a gracious and seductive mood, could have turned his head to look, he would have marvelled at her freezing disdain. Mollie June imitated her in rising and in a more youthful hauteur. Without waiting for any reply Alicia turned and walked into the bedroom, and Mollie June followed.

But feminine disdain, however magnificent, had little effect on Thompson. He was obviously relieved. He looked at Aunt Mary, plainly desiring that she should go too.

"No, I think I'll remain, Mr. Thompson," she said pleasantly.

Then he looked at Simpson, and the latter cast an inquiring glance at Aunt Mary.

"You may stay, please, Simpson," said she. "We shall be finishing our breakfast presently."

Before Thompson could digest this snub Alicia reentered from the bedroom. She carried a white knitted wool scarf, with which she went to Merriam.

"Don't you feel chilly, George?" she asked. "You can't be too careful with that throat."

She knelt down by his chair, put the scarf over his head, brought it down past his cheeks, tied it loosely under his chin, and threw the ends back over his shoulders.

"Now, lean back. Isn't that better? Mr. Norman has a severe cold," she said in the general direction of Thompson. "The doctor is afraid of bronchitis," she added, as she rose and drew the shades. "That light is getting too bright for your eyes."

She flashed a glance at Aunt Mary and returned to the bedroom.

Merriam had been feeling that it was only a matter of minutes before Thompson--whoever Thompson might be--would somehow force his way to his side and look down into his face and, probably, perceive the imposture as Mayor Black had done. But now, with the welcome aid of the scarf, he had the bravado to turn partly in his chair and say throatily:

"What do you want?"

Thompson had remained a gaping spectator of the tying up of Merriam's head, but this question enabled him to recover his natural aggressiveness. With one defiant glance at Aunt Mary, he started forward and pushed his way past Simpson, who could have stopped him only by an actual physical offensive.

"What do I want?" he repeated sarcastically, as he stood looking down on the senatorial head bundled in the scarf. "I want to know what the hell you've gone and done--you and Black--without letting anybody know you were going to! What about Crockett? Didn't you promise him at eight o'clock last night that you would tell Black to veto? And then this!"

Thompson had drawn a folded newspaper from his coat pocket. He struck it with his other hand.

"Is that the way to treat your friends who've stuck by you? What about the election next week? What about the state machine? What about your campaign fund? Have you gone nutty? Did you really do it, or is the Mayor lying? That's what I want to know!"

"What business is it of yours?" asked the victim of this torrent of questions as he stared from between the folds of his woolen scarf at the unlighted gas log.

Merriam really was asking for information, but the politician could not know this. It seemed to him the last insult--and repudiation. He fell back a step dramatically.

"So that's it!" he cried. "After I've managed two campaigns for you! I've done your dirty work for ten years! And now, over night, what business is it of mine? You throw me over! And all your friends. The men who sent you to the Senate of the United States and kept you there. And what for? To join that fool Black! And the Reform League, I suppose. Philip Rockwell and his gang of preachers and short-haired women and long-haired mollycoddles! You'll appeal to the dear People! Bah!"

Thompson had by this time apparently forgotten entirely the presence of Aunt Mary and Simpson. He snatched a cigar from his waistcoat pocket and bit the end off it, produced a match from somewhere, and lighted it, emitting volumes of smoke. He thumped with his newspaper on the arm of Merriam's chair and in an impressively lowered tone continued:

"Listen to me. It won't do, Senator. You can't get away with it. Not you. Reform and the people and pure politics and all that. If you'd started in on that line twenty years ago,--may be! I don't say it couldn't be made to pay. But not by you, at this time of day. It's too late. You've tied up with the other gang. They know you. They know too much about you. They won't let you do it. It's no use trying. Of course, if you're tired of your job--if you're hankering to quit--if you want to go down in a grand smash,--all right! But if you want to stay in the United States Senate, there's just one way you can do it, and that's to play the old game in the old way with the old crowd. Savez?"

All this was a trifle hard on young Merriam. Thompson had told who he was, so that the boy realised the critical character of the interview. But there was so much else he needed to know. How had the real Norman been in the habit of treating this man? How would he probably have acted in such a situation as they were pretending? The only thing he could do was to say as little as possible. Now that it was necessary to make some response, what he said was:

"We'll see about that."

Thompson was rather encouraged than otherwise by this remark. He had not, of course, expected any immediate acquiescence.

"You'll see all right if you keep on," he retorted with elephantine irony. "But for God's sake, Senator, try to see things in time. It's not too late yet. Turn the Mayor down. You aren't committed openly. He is, but you aren't. Let him go smash alone. He was always a fool! You can swear to Crockett that you told Black to veto. It don't matter whether he believes you or not. He'll take you back. This Ordinance business don't matter. They'll fix that some way. There are bigger things than that coming, and they know how useful you can be. You can't keep on with this other."

"Can't I?" asked Merriam, not unskillfully fishing for further revelations.

"Listen to me, Senator. Didn't you accept fifty thousand dollars of common stock in the United Traction Companies? Are you going to give that back? Will Crockett _let_ you give it back? Not he! Have you forgotten how we cornered the vote in Kankakee County when you ran six years ago? Crockett knows about that. The whole crowd know it. And what about that nice little honorarium you received for your vote in the Senate on the last amendment to the Interstate Commerce Act? If you've forgotten it, the men who put it up haven't! Do you think they'll let you go off like this? As long as you play the game and keep your good looks and can make your popular speeches they'll keep you in the Senate, and the good things will come your way. They'll get you a Cabinet job if you want it. Just say the word. But if you throw them over, they'll turn on you. These little things I've been reminding you of will leak out. Man alive, you're liable to end in the pen!"

"Perhaps," said Merriam, "but I shouldn't go alone. A man named Thompson would go with me, eh? And maybe even Mr. Crockett. And others I might name." (Merriam wished he _could_ name them.)

"That for your threats!" he finished grandly and snapped his fingers, thanking heaven for the role of villain he had enacted in a certain college melodrama, in connection with which he had, by diligent practice, acquired the not common art of snapping one's fingers effectively.

Thompson, who, had unwontedly removed his cigar from his mouth at Merriam's speech, now backed away from the huddled figure.

"You think you'd do that!" he said, in a voice in which cynical scorn contended with something a little like fright.

"Not unless I am forced to," said Merriam. "But I have chosen a new course, and I mean to follow it."

But Thompson, standing solidly in the spot to which he had retreated, as if he had "dug in" there, restored his cigar to the accustomed corner of his face and narrowed his little eyes till they were hideously smaller than usual.

"It's unfortunate, Senator," he said, with a kind of exaggerated suavity, "that this reform in your public morals last night was not accompanied by a corresponding change in your private morals."

"What do you mean?" asked Merriam quickly, and his voice faltered ever so little, a fact which the other did not miss.

"Oh, you were known, you know, at Reiberg's Place. You told everybody who you were, I understand. You must have been pretty gay. Celebrating your new virtue, I suppose! But handing fifty-dollar bills to dance-hall girls isn't quite the line for a Reform League hero, Senator! And we know where you went afterwards. She's a pretty little thing, but she's not in the Reform League picture! Suppose we say nothing about the United Traction stock or the Kankakee County vote or the Interstate Commerce business or any other little incidents of the past like that, but just start with this little affair of last night. How will that mix with pure politics, Senator?"

It was Thompson's turn to enjoy himself. He could not refrain from following up this new vein.

"Your old friends are liberal-minded, Senator. But your new friends, the great American people, are a little inclined to be narrow in matters of private morality."

Thompson's follow-up attack was a mistake. It gave Merriam time to think and decide upon his course.

"I was _not_ at Reiberg's last night," he said, recovering his loftiness and adding coldness thereto. "Nor anywhere else. I spent the night in this hotel."

Thompson stared. For a moment it almost seemed that his jaw would fall and his precious cigar drop out. But he recovered himself with a sneer.

"You did, did you? In the company of your wife, I suppose! And that thing about your head is really to keep you from catching cold and not to keep your head from splitting open with the headache? You're pretty fresh this morning, considering. I hand it to you there. But"--his rising anger got the better of his unnatural affectation of suavity, which he had maintained up to the limit of his endurance--"but that lie won't go! You don't know what you did last night. You were stewed right. You told every Tom, Dick, and Harry, and Mary and Jane at the dance hall that you were Senator Norman. You fool!"

"After that," said Merriam, playing his part regally, or, let us say, senatorially, "I can only suggest to you that behind you is a door which I wish you would make use of as soon as possible."

Thompson seemed decidedly nonplused at this. The real Norman had always been amenable to threats and on the whole patient under abuse.

"Do you mean," he burst out, "that I'm not to be your manager? You turn me down cold?"

At this juncture there came a quick, light knock at the door to which Merriam had just referred so grandly.

Simpson looked quickly at Aunt Mary and then at Merriam.

"Let me know who it is," said the latter, realising that he must seem to be in command.

When Simpson opened the door it was Rockwell who pushed past him. He stopped short before Thompson (with his cigar) in hostile confrontation.

Cautiously Merriam peered around the off side of his high backed chair.

"Mr. Thompson," he said, "you know Mr. Rockwell, I believe. My new manager!"

For a moment Thompson stood. Once his mouth opened, almost certainly to frame an oath. It is strange evidence of the survival of chivalry in American life that Aunt Mary's presence restrained that outburst. Instead, we must suppose, he took the stub of his cigar from his mouth and dashed it on the carpet.

"I'm through!" he said. Then to Merriam: "I'll use your door all right--for the last time--till you send for me!"

He caught up his hat and walked past Rockwell, within an inch of brushing against him but not looking at him.

At the door he turned.

"You've read your morning papers, I suppose! Have you read _Tidbits_? Take a look at it!"

The door slammed behind him.

*CHAPTER XIV*

*HOLDING THE FORT*

The reverberation of Thompson's slamming still echoed in the room when the bedroom door opened and Alicia sailed in, followed more demurely by Mollie June.

"Good morning, Philip," said Alicia to her fiance.

Then she turned to Merriam.

"Oh, you did splendidly!" she cried.

"Did I?" said Merriam, awkwardly trying to get the woolen scarf off his head.

"Indeed you did. We listened to every word. I through the keyhole. And Mollie June lay down on the floor and listened under the door. It was mean of me to take the keyhole, but I'm too old and fat for the other position."

Possibly Mollie June's recent prostration accounted for the color in her cheeks.

"Help him off with that thing, dear," Alicia added, and herself advanced to Rockwell and took his hands, offering to be kissed--an offer of which Rockwell took advantage with some fervour.

"Yes, I'll help you," said Mollie June, moving somewhat timidly in Merriam's direction.

He met her more than half way.

"Please," he said. "I'm all bound round with a woolen string."

Mollie June drew the ends of the scarf down off his shoulders and untied the loose knot under his chin.

"There!" she said, looking up at him.

Merriam snatched the thing off his head, ruffling his hair.

"Thank you!"

Rockwell's voice reached them across the room. Aunt Mary had been hurriedly narrating the happenings with Thompson. He now looked approvingly at Merriam.

"That's all right," he said, reflectively. "Very good. Yes. Just as well to defy him at once. Could hardly have been better. Ah, there's Hobart now, I suppose," for a discreet knock had sounded at the hall door.

Rockwell himself admitted the house physician, a bald, youngish man, with nose glasses over slightly shifty eyes and a quite unprofessional manner--the manner of a "smart" young business man.

Merriam and Mollie June joined the others for the introductions. These formalities over, Dr. Hobart confirmed the report of Norman's condition which Rockwell had given them over the telephone. He "was getting along all right"--with a sidelong glance at Mollie June--"except for a touch of bronchitis."

Mollie June betrayed an embarrassed uneasiness. Merriam wondered just how much she knew of her husband's whereabouts--of his escapades in general.

"Very well," said Aunt Mary briskly, "you must go right to bed, Mr. Merriam, before some one else comes. You're ill with bronchitis, of course. That scarf was a splendid idea, Alicia, but it was a close shave. We mustn't run any more risks. You will attend him, Dr. Hobart?"

"Of course," said the young physician, evidently much amused. "Mr. Rockwell has told me the story. It's as good as a play. Mr. Merriam--I mean, Senator,--I order you to bed at once."

"Very well," said Merriam and turned towards Senator Norman's bedroom.

"I'll show you where things are," said Rockwell, accompanying him. "I explored a bit last night."

In the bedroom with the door closed behind them, Merriam hesitated.

"Better get your things off at once," said Rockwell, going to the bureau and stooping to open the bottom drawer. "It's nearly ten o'clock," he continued, rummaging. "The reporters will be here any minute. I'm surprised some enterprising chap hasn't arrived already. We'll try to keep them off, of course. But some of those fellows are mighty clever. Here we are--pajamas," he added, pulling out the garments for which he had been searching.

Then he crossed to a closet, from which in a moment he emerged with a bath robe and a pair of bedroom slippers.

"I'll put these by the bed so that if there's any reason for you to get up you can do so easily. But unless something happens to change our plans, you're much too sick to get up to-day."

A knock sounded at the door into the sitting room. Rockwell answered it and returned grinning.

"Aunt Mary says that Simpson shall bring you some ham and a cup of coffee as soon as you're in bed. Why didn't you tell me you have had nothing to eat but grapefruit?"

"I had forgotten," said Merriam, realising nevertheless that he was very hungry.

Rockwell dropped into a comfortable chair. "It's rather good fun," he said. "This conspiracy business. I do hope we can pull it through."

By this time Merriam was inside the senatorial pajamas. He approached the bed, turned down the covers, and awkwardly climbed in, feeling for all the world like a little boy who has been sent to bed in the daytime for being naughty.

"Now about lights," said Rockwell rising. The window shades had not been raised; they were using the chandelier. "Not these center lights, nor the night lamp. Both are too bright on your face in case---- Let's try this side light."

He turned on a light on the wall on the other side of Merriam's bed, switched off the ceiling lights, and surveyed the effect.

"That's good," he said. "If we have to bring any one in, you can lie looking this way and still your face will be in shadow. Lie well down in with the covers up to your chin. Now I'll bring you some breakfast."

Merriam, left alone for a minute, wished he had been permitted to finish his breakfast in the sitting room before being sent to bed. He had counted on that breakfast, and the first course had been fully as delightful as he had pictured it.

Rockwell soon returned, carrying a tray on which was a plate of really fine ham, with rolls and butter and a cup of coffee.

"I guess I'm not too sick to sit up to eat, so long as only you're here," said Merriam, suiting his posture to the word and falling to with appetite.

Rockwell drew up a chair and for several minutes sat smoking in silence. Then he said:

"Did you catch Thompson's parting shot about _Tidbits_?"

"Yes," Merriam replied, without interrupting operations. "What did he mean?"

Rockwell drew a clipping from his pocket. "Listen," he said, and read the following:

_The Senator's Night Off_

There was a dance last night at Reiberg's Place on the West
Side. Most of our readers do not know Reiberg's. It comprises
a dancing floor over a saloon, with a bar attached for the
convenience of patrons who may not be willing--or, as the
evening advances, able--to go downstairs to the saloon; also
certain small rooms where one may drink or otherwise enjoy
oneself quite privately. Its patrons, male and female, are
chiefly employees in the neighbouring factories.

But last night Reiberg's was honoured, we are credibly informed,
by a guest from quite a different sphere--no less than a Senator
of the United States. We are not able at present to give his
name with certainty, and of course we are not willing to give
names in such a case until we have verified our information with
scrupulous care. But he certainly announced himself as Senator
----, and he looked the part, and distributed money, presumably
from the salary paid to him out of public funds, with lavish
abandon.

Having tried to kiss one of the prettier girls and been knocked
down by her escort--who evidently knew naught of "senatorial
courtesies,"--he emphasised the sincerity of his tipsy apologies
by handing the lucky insulted one a fifty-dollar bill.

Later, it is said, he attached himself to another young woman,
unaccompanied, it would seem, by any pugnacious swain, with whom
he spent several hours, partly on the dancing floor and partly
elsewhere.

Finally, with we fear little of his money left about him, he was
charitably carried off by the chauffeur of his waiting taxi.

Well, well, after the arduous strain of legislative labours, one
doubtless feels the need of a little relaxation. We hope the
Senator enjoyed himself.

Rockwell folded up his clipping. "A tolerably close paraphrase of Simpson's story," he remarked. "They have the facts pretty straight."

"What is this _Tidbits_?" asked Merriam, sitting on his pillow with the tray in his lap. He had stopped eating.

"Oh, a dirty little sheet of scandal. Twice a week. But it's pretty widely read. And they know his name, of course. In fact any one can guess it, because Senator Norman is known to be in the city, and there is no other United States Senator stopping here now, so far as any one knows. It will be a bit nasty if they push this sort of thing. They'll put it in the regular newspapers next--a straight news item with his name in it."

"That article doesn't say where he went afterwards," said Merriam. "But Thompson knew.

"They're keeping that in reserve. Listen!"

Male voices were audible from the sitting room.

"The reporters!" exclaimed Rockwell. "I'll take that tray. Lie down and cover up. I must go and help Aunt Mary hold the fort."

Merriam finished his coffee in a gulp, and Rockwell set the tray on the seat of a chair and hastily entered the sitting room.

There followed a long period--more than an hour, in fact--during which Merriam lay in bed and listened to varied voices from the other room, and speculated as to what was going on, and wondered what he should do if the door should open and some irresistibly aggressive reporter or irresistibly important political friend of Norman's be ushered in.

But Rockwell and Aunt Mary, with the occasional support of Dr. Hobart, successfully withstood the army of reporters and a few minor politicians who called, and at length the loud masculine voices from the other room ceased, and Merriam lay still, somewhat fatigued by his prolonged strain of apprehension, and waited.

Presently the door opened, and Aunt Mary and Rockwell entered. Merriam had closed his eyes, but Rockwell speedily opened them.

"Oh, you can wake up," he said. "It's all right. The coast is clear."

Merriam rolled over so as to lie on his back. "Well, what next?" he said.

Aunt Mary and Rockwell looked at each, other. Rockwell spoke:

"Miss Norman and I are going out. We shall drop in at the Mayor's for a few minutes and then go on to a Reform League luncheon at the Urban Club. I am due to act as toastmaster or chairman for the speeches afterwards, and it will be just as well to have Miss Norman present. She will symbolise the prospective new alliance. We are going to leave you under the care of Alicia and Mrs. Norman. No one else is likely to come for several hours now. We shall be back at about half past two or three. Meanwhile luncheon. You didn't get a very big breakfast after all. Simpson shall serve it here by your bed, and Alicia and Mollie June can eat with you."

This disposition suited Merriam excellently well, but he made no comment. He tried to decide whether Aunt Mary was really eyeing him sharply or whether he only imagined it.

In any case she almost immediately added a rather formal "Good morning," and returned to the sitting room.

Rockwell lingered a moment.

"We're going to try to bring Norman back here this evening, you know. If it's at all possible. If it shouldn't be--if he's too sick or something, I suppose you could stay over another day still?"

Merriam thought with a panic of his school.

"Not unless it's absolutely necessary," he replied with a good deal of emphasis.

"It probably won't be," said Rockwell reassuringly. "We're quite as anxious to get rid of you, you know," he added smiling, "as you can be to get away from us. A double's a horribly dangerous thing to have around. Well, so long."

In less than five minutes after Rockwell's departure there came a knock at that door upon which Merriam's attention was concentrated--a distinctly feminine knock.

Merriam disposed himself as discreetly as possible under the bedclothes and answered it.

Alicia opened the door and peeped. "May I come in?" She opened it wider and came through. "I'm the chaperon, you know."

"Are you?" asked Merriam smiling.

Alicia was pleased by his smile and said so.

"I always like it when people laugh at the idea of my being a chaperon."

"Why?" said Merriam.

"Oh, so long as it seems funny for a woman to be a chaperon she's young."

"It seems funny for you," said Merriam.

"That's very nicely said," returned Alicia. "Come in, Mollie June."

As Mollie June did not appear, Alicia looked into the sitting room.

"Why," she said, "she must have gone into her bedroom. I do believe she's doing her hair over." And Alicia raised her eyebrows.

In spite of hope deferred Merriam was made happy. He recalled the supreme necessity of shaving earlier that morning.

Alicia dropped into the chair by the bed in which Rockwell had sat and pretended to scan the invalid's face solicitously.

"I should say, Senator," she remarked, "that you do not _look_ like a very sick man. Your condition must be improving. We can hope you will be able to take a little nourishment."

"You can hope that all right," grinned the invalid.

"I've ordered----" Alicia, making talk, plunged into the details of a quite elaborate refection.

By the time she had finished and had replied to one or two humorous comments from Merriam, whose spirits were certainly rising, Simpson presented himself with the substantial fulfillment of her prospectus. And not until then did Mollie June join them. Her coiffure, though simple, was certainly faultless and so far as a masculine eye could judge newly arranged.

Alicia caught Merriam's glance and read his thoughts and smiled.

"What is it?" asked Mollie June suspiciously.

"What is what?" said Merriam, lamely.

"The Senator has been very humorous over the meal I have ordered," explained Alicia more deftly.

"Don't call him the Senator!" cried Mollie June. "His name is"--her eyes met Merriam's for an instant--"Mr. John."

"I see," said Alicia. In the dim light Merriam was not sure whether she raised her eyebrows again or not, but he was afraid she did.

Simpson, intent only on the proper illumination of his carefully laid cloth, but unwittingly conspiring with the elder gods (Fate and Destiny and the like), had turned on the night lamp and set it on the corner of the table next to Mollie June, and its radiance fell full on her slender, erect figure, now arrayed in--Merriam had not the slightest idea what kind of fabric it was, but it was creamy white, and at her waist was one of the red roses he had helped to freshen. The circle of bright light extended up to her white throat. Occasionally when she leaned forward her face dipped into it, but for the most part showed only dimly in the fainter glow that came through the shade of the lamp. He could see her eyes, however, and not infrequently they rested on him. His, it is to be feared, were on her most of the time.

When at length the luncheon was finished and Merriam had expressed himself as disinclined for cigarettes and Simpson had removed his dishes and his table and finally himself, Alicia, who was really a most good-natured person--a pearl among chaperons,--yawned and announced that she had a novel which she desired to finish, and that, if they didn't mind, she proposed to retire to the sitting room to prosecute that literary occupation.

"You can amuse him for a while, Mrs. Norman," she said, with a humorous smile; Merriam did not venture to question what more subtle thoughts that smile might veil. "He's your guest more than mine, seeing it's your husband he's impersonating. If he gets too boring, you can come for me and I'll spell you."

Neither Mollie June nor Merriam replied, but Alicia, still with that amused smile, rose and calmly departed. She left the door open, of course, between the two rooms.

Upon the two young people, thus abruptly left alone together, there descended an embarrassed silence. For a minute or so they heard Alicia moving about in the sitting room and then the small sounds which one makes in adjusting one's self comfortably in an armchair with a footstool and a book, ending in a pleasurable sigh.

Merriam was overwhelmed by the necessity of finding talk. He could not lie there in bed and stare at Mollie June, however beatitudinous it might have been to do so. Several seconds of prodigious intellectual labour brought forth this polite question:

"Do you hear often from the girls in Riceville?"

"Not very often," said Mollie June.

We can hardly describe this reply as helpful.

Again he struggled mightily, with the banal kind of result that usually follows such paroxysms conversational topic-hunting:

"You must find your life here and in Washington wonderful."

"It seemed so, at first," said Mollie June.

"But it didn't last?"

Merriam was conscious of danger on this tack but he must have a moment's rest before he could wrestle with the void again.

"No," said Mollie June.

Merriam waited, not shirking his responsibilities but conscious that she meant to continue. She was always deliberate of speech--a fact which gave a piquant significance to her simplest words.

"You see," she said, "I didn't really care very much for George. I thought I did at first, but I didn't. Papa really made me marry him. And you know he is untrue to me."

Merriam could have gasped. He felt himself falling through the thin ice of mere "conversation," on which he had tried so hard to skate, into the depths of real talk. But it was good to be in the depths. And after his first breathlessness he was filled with love and pity. How much the brief, girlish sentences portrayed of disillusionment and tragedy!

"You know about that then?" he asked gently.

"Of course," said Mollie June, almost scornfully. "Before company Aunt Mary and Alicia and Mr. Rockwell keep up the pretence that I can know nothing about such things. I keep it up too! But Aunt Mary knows all about them. George never can conceal anything from her. And I make her tell me everything. Everything!"

Merriam, I suspect, hardly sensed the amount of intellect and character which Mollie June's last statement betrayed--I use the word advisedly, for, of course, intellect and character detract from a young girl's charm, and if she desires to be pretty and alluring she should, and usually does, carefully conceal whatever of such attributes she may be handicapped with. But to "make" Aunt Mary disclose things she wished not to disclose was no small achievement.

"You know about this Jennie Higgins?" Merriam asked.

"Yes. I've seen her and talked with her."

"How?" was Merriam's startled question.

"She's a manicurist, you know. She's employed at ----" Mollie June mentioned a well-known establishment on Michigan Avenue, the name of which for obvious reasons I suppress. "When I found that out, I went there to have my nails done. I just asked for--Madame Couteau, and waited till she was free. She didn't know me, of course. She's pretty," said Mollie June, with judicial coldness.

After a moment she added, "And sweet and--warm."

"But how any man can leave you----" cried Merriam, treading recklessly on several kinds of dynamite.

"You haven't seen her," said Mollie June.

Merriam was silenced. It was true he had not seen her. And he remembered with confusion that he had talked with her over a wire and, as Rockwell put it, had not "needed much prompting."

He stole a glance at Mollie June. The purity of her white-clad figure, its brave erectness, and the impassive sadness so out of place on her young face caught at his heart.

"How can you stand it?" he cried, and would have put out his hand to her had he not remembered that he was in bed and that his arm was clad only in the sleeve of a suit of pajamas.

Mollie June looked at him.

"I don't know," she said. "What else can I do?"

Merriam lay still, now openly staring at her. Of all intolerable things of which he had ever heard it seemed to him the worst that Mollie June--"the prettiest girl,"--with all her loveliness and sweetness and courage and youthful joy in life, should be so slighted and wronged and saddened and degraded. It was like seeing a rose trampled under foot. (Merriam's mental simile was not very original perhaps, but to him it was intensely poignant.)

For a moment she met his gaze, then looked away. In the subdued light Merriam could not be sure, but he thought there was a new brightness of tears in her eyes, released perhaps by his very apparent though inexpressive sympathy.

Presently the thought which had inevitably come to him forced itself almost against his will to expression:

"You could divorce him."

"I've thought of that." (Somehow this shocked Merriam.) "But it would be too horrible. Have you read the divorce trials in the papers? With a Senator they would make the most of it. And Aunt Mary won't let me do that. It would ruin him politically, she says."

"Well, what if it did? How about you?"

"Oh, she loves him, you know. She thinks he can be brought to change his ways. She believes in him still."

"Do you?"

"No," said Mollie June, with the clear-eyed cruel simplicity of youth.

"He may die," was the thought in Merriam's mind, but this could not be said.

Full of pity, he gazed at her again, and something in the profile of her averted face overcame him. He started up on his elbow--all this time he had lain with his head on his arm on the pillow.

"Mollie June!" he cried, his voice softly raised.

She did not look at him.

"Dear Mollie June! You must know I love you. I loved you three years ago in Riceville. There's nothing wrong about that. When you're in such trouble I must tell you. It can't do you any good. There's nothing we can do. But--I do love you!"

She turned her eyes upon him.

"Why didn't you tell me that--in Riceville?"

"Oh!" he cried.

Mollie June rose and came to the bedside.

"I know," she said with womanly gentleness. "You couldn't, of course. Because you were so poor. I ought to have waited--John!"

For a moment her hand hovered above his head as if she would have stroked his ruffled hair. But it descended to her side again.

"We mustn't talk like this. I must go. I'll tell Alicia we are--bored!"

There were tears not only in her eyes but on her cheeks now. Undisguisedly she wiped them away and carefully dried her eyes with a small handkerchief.

"I shall see you at dinner," she said with a brave smile, and, turning, walked quickly out of the room.

*CHAPTER XV*

*COUNCIL OF WAR*

It was some time before Alicia, with something more, if possible, than her usual aplomb, covering, let us hope, a guilty conscience, entered the bedroom, presumably to "spell" Mollie June in amusing the supposed invalid.

Alicia made some remark which hardly penetrated the invalid's consciousness, but scarcely had she sat down in Mollie June's chair before a quick knock sounded at the hall door of the sitting room, almost immediately followed by the sound of the opening of that door, and Alicia sprang up again and hurried away, to be before Mollie June in receiving the newcomers. It began to irritate Merriam to perceive how they all treated her as a little girl, when as he now thrillingly realised she was very much a woman in spite of the youthfulness of her face and figure.

The arrivals in the other room proved to be Rockwell and Aunt Mary returned. Recognising their voices, Merriam glanced at his watch under his pillow and was amazed to find that it was nearly four o'clock.

Rockwell appeared in the doorway.

"Come into this other room," he said. "We must hold a council of war."

"Shall I dress?" asked Merriam, gladly getting out of bed.

"No, no," said Rockwell impatiently. "Just put on your bath robe and slippers."

Having followed this instruction, Merriam stepped to the glass and with a few quick strokes of the brush smoothed his hair, Rockwell watching him without comment. Then they went into the sitting room.

Merriam blankly perceived that the sitting room was empty--of Mollie June.

"She has a slight headache," said Alicia kindly--suffering still, we may hope, from pangs of conscience.

Aunt Mary was sitting in the senatorial armchair, which had been turned about to face the rest of the room. She looked long and hard at Merriam--an intensification of that close scrutiny with which, it seemed to him, she had always distinguished him. Merriam, in his bath robe, sustained it awkwardly but manfully. Alicia and Rockwell were standing. The silence was rather portentous.

"Sit down, all of you," said Aunt Mary suddenly.

The three younger persons present--even Rockwell seemed youthful beside Aunt Mary in her dominant mood--rather hurriedly found seats.

"Is the door locked, Philip?"

Rockwell rose, went to the hall door, turned the key, and returned to his chair.

"Tell him," said Aunt Mary.

Rockwell's budget of news was certainly considerable and important.

In the first place, George Norman was "better." Rockwell and Aunt Mary had gone to see him at Jennie's after the Reform League luncheon. That was why they were so late. He undoubtedly had a touch of bronchitis, with some fever and a cough, but seemed to be improving. He could be brought back to the hotel that evening. Aunt Mary had sat down by his bed and told him briefly but plainly of the happenings at the hotel the previous evening, and had extorted a feeble, amazed acquiescence in the astonishing turn which had been given to his career--an acquiescence which she had immediately communicated by telephone from Jennie's to Mayor Black.

In the second place, the story of Norman's evening at Reiberg's was all over the city--not among the populace, of course, but among the politicians and business men and clubmen--the men who know things. Not only the story in _Tidbits_, which everybody seemed to have read and to have assigned unhesitatingly to Norman, but the further fact that from Reiberg's he had gone in the taxi to "a certain little flat"--that seemed to be the approved phrase,--and had spent the night there, and was still there. The simple truth, in short, was known. Rockwell had taken his cue perforce from Merriam's impulsive denial to Thompson and had flatly contradicted the whole story. Senator Norman had spent the evening, after his interviews with Mr. Crockett and with Mayor Black, at the hotel with his wife, and was there now, slightly indisposed with a severe cold which had threatened to turn into bronchitis. His downright assertions had, Rockwell believed, shaken the confident rumours and would probably delay any further publication of them for at least a day. But it was necessary to produce evidence.

"We shall have to use you again to-night," he said to Merriam. "I have invited the Mayor and Mr. Wayward to dine with you here at the hotel--downstairs in the Peacock Cabaret."

"Shall I have to play the Senator there?" gasped Merriam--"in public!"

"Semi-public," said Rockwell. "I have reserved a table in an alcove. We shall put you in the corner. All the rest of us will be between you and the general gaze. Oh, we shall get away with it. It's much less dangerous than trying to impose at close range in a private interview on some one who really knows the Senator--as you did on Thompson this morning."

"Does Mr. Wayward know?" asked Merriam.

"Of the impersonation? Not yet. But Alicia shall prepare him in advance."

Alicia nodded. "That's all right," she said. "Daddy will enjoy it. He'll think it's a huge joke."

"Moreover," continued Rockwell, with rather apprehensive eyes on Merriam, "I have accepted an invitation for Senator Gorman to speak at the Reform League luncheon to-morrow."

"Do they have luncheons and speeches every day?" asked Merriam, sparring for time, for of course he saw what was coming.

"Not usually, but they've been having a series. To-morrow is the last one. It's the perfect opportunity for Norman to come out openly for the League. When the invitation came, I simply had to accept it."

"But if George Norman isn't able to speak?" queried Alicia, fearlessly coming to the point.

"Then you'll have to make the speech!" said Rockwell bluntly to Merriam.

"But how can I?"

"You were a debater in college."

"Yes, but the speech itself----"

"Oh, Aunt Mary will fix you up with a speech."

Merriam turned to that silent mistress of the situation, sitting calmly in the senatorial armchair.

"George is so very busy that I often write his speeches for him," she said, as if it were the most natural arrangement in the world. "I have several sketched out now. We can make a choice among them. I will write it out in full and you can learn it, or I will turn over the outline to you and you can work it up in your own words--if you have to make it."