Chapter VIII: Part 8

With that he rose and felicitated the company on the arrival of the two distinguished servants of the City and the Nation between whom he now had the honour to sit.

He then introduced Colonel Edwards, a stout, quite unmilitary-looking gentleman, who was earnestly interested and mildly interesting on the subject of good roads for the space of fifteen minutes.

Merriam's attention was distracted almost at the beginning of Colonel Edwards' speech by the arrival at the entrance of the dining room, now directly opposite him, of the second taxi-load from the hotel. Alicia caught Merriam's eye and smiled at him mischievously. Evidently she was enjoying the situation to the full. Mollie June, on the other hand, though deliciously crowned with a small blossomy hat of obvious expensiveness, was entirely grave, her eyes fixed almost too steadily and too anxiously on our youthful hero, where he sat in the seats of the mighty, outwardly at least as much at ease as if he had been accustomed for thirty years to find himself at the speakers' table of historic clubs.

Colonel Edwards suddenly sat down. He was one of those rare public speakers who occasionally disconcert their audiences by stopping when they are through.

The toastmaster gasped, but rose to his feet and the occasion and called upon Mayor Black.

As the Mayor slowly rose Merriam was most uncomfortably anxious--uncertain whether the city's chief executive was even yet sufficiently master of himself to face an audience successfully. But Mr. Black was one of those gentlemen, not uncommon in public life, who are apparently more at ease before an audience than in any other situation. His great mellow voice boomed forth, and Merriam relaxed. That speech was hardly, perhaps, one of the Mayor's masterpieces. But that mattered little, of course. He produced an admirably even flow of head tones. It _sounded_ like a perfectly good speech.

Merriam, at any rate, was quite oblivious of any lack of strict logical coherence in the Mayor's remarks. He was suddenly smitten by the realisation that his own turn came next. For a moment he fought a panic of blankness, then mentally grabbed at the opening sentences of what he had so carefully committed during the morning. Outwardly serene and attentive to the speaker, inwardly he hastily rehearsed his first half dozen paragraphs, and, winking his eyes somewhat rapidly perhaps, fixed the outline of the rest of it in his mind.

The Mayor rose to a climax of thunderous tone and eloquent gesture and sat. Loud applause followed.

Across the clapping hands Merriam glanced at Mr. Wayward and Alicia and Mollie June where they sat at one side of the horseshoe. The other two were clapping, but Mollie June was not. He thought she looked pale, but of course he was too far away to be sure. "She is afraid for me," he thought, and gratitude for her interest mingled with a fine resolve to show her that she had no cause for fear--that he would give a good account of himself anywhere--for her.

The glow of that resolution carried him through the ordeal of the toastmaster's introduction and brought him to his feet with smiling alacrity at the proper moment.

The applause was hearty. There is magic still, strange as it may seem, in the word "senator." He was forced to bow again and again.

Then he struck into his speech--Aunt Mary's speech. He found himself letter-perfect. He had at least half his mind free to attend to his delivery. He gave it slowly, impressively, grandly facing first one part of his audience and then another. George Norman himself before packed galleries in the Senate Chamber at Washington had never done better. And it was a good speech, deftly conceived, clearly reasoned, aptly worded. Merriam himself in all his morning's study of it had not realised how perfectly it was adapted to the occasion and the audience. Down at the far end of the speakers' table, the female author of it sat unnoticed, watching with tight-pressed lips its effect; her only right to be there, if any one had asked you, the accident of her relationship to the wonderful Senator.

He reached the end. As he rounded out the last sentence his eyes rested triumphantly for a second on Mollie June. Whether or not her cheeks had been pale before, they were flushed now. He sat down.

The room rocked. The applause this time was no mechanical reaction. It was an ovation. The toastmaster leaped to his feet with ponderous agility and grabbed for Merriam's hand. The latter found himself standing, the center of a group of excited men, all of whom he must pretend to know, overwhelming him with congratulations.

Behind him he caught a remark that was doubtless not intended for his ears: "How the devil does he keep his youthful looks and fire? He might be twenty-five!"

Then Rockwell charged into the group, excited himself, but persistent with the formula, "Pressing engagement," and got him out of the room, and into the elevator, and through the hallway on the first floor, with his hat and coat restored, and into the limousine, which darted away for the hotel.

*CHAPTER XXV*

*SECOND COUNCIL OF WAR*

Merriam and Rockwell were alone in the Senator's car.

Merriam leaned back against the cushions and closed his eyes. He was at once fatigued and excited. It almost seemed to him that he was still addressing the Urban Club. Then he seemed to be talking still but to a single auditor--a girl with flushed cheeks and eyes that shone with excited pride.

He opened his eyes. Rockwell was regarding him steadily. "I don't wonder you feel done up," he said. "It was splendid, my boy. You spoke like a veteran. You ought to go into public life on your own. Perhaps you will." He seemed to meditate. Then: "You saw Crockett, I suppose?"

"No!" exclaimed Merriam.

"Didn't you? He was seated six places to your right at the speakers' table. Right in line with you, of course. Not strange you missed him. Just as well, perhaps. It might have shaken even _your_ nerve."

The phrase "even _your_ nerve" was pleasant praise to Merriam. He had never thought of himself as possessed of any exceptional _sang froid_. But perhaps he had behaved with rather creditable composure in a trying situation.

"_He_ was shaken, I can tell you," Rockwell was saying. "Lord, I was on pins! I didn't know but what when you rose to speak he would jump up and denounce you. But not he. He simply lay back and stared and kept moistening his lips. I suppose he couldn't make up his mind for sure whether you were the Senator or the double or whether he himself had gone crazy or not. We'll hear from him, though," he added reflectively.

"I suppose so," said Merriam wearily. "I wish to Heaven we were clean through the thing!" That feeling had come suddenly, and for the moment he meant it, though he was having the time of his life.

"So do I," said Rockwell heartily. "But we're not. Not by a long shot. So you must buck up. Here's the hotel. You shall have a real meal now. That'll put heart into you again."

The machine stopped, and the door was opened.

"Quick time, now!" Rockwell whispered.

Senator Norman and his new political manager, Mr. Rockwell of the Reform League, rushed almost precipitately into the lobby of the Hotel De Soto and made a bee line for the nearest elevator. It was obvious that important business urgently called them, for they merely nodded hurriedly in response to several cordial salutations.

As the elevator shot up Rockwell leaned heavily against the side of the car, took off his hat, though there was no one with them, drew a deep breath, and comically winked both eyes at Merriam.

"What a life!" he ejaculated.

Stepping out at Floor Three, they were greeted by the spectacle of Dr. Hobart bending over the floor clerk's desk and evidently having a delightful tete-a-tete with the handsome young mistress of that sanctum, whose eyes were coquettishly raised to his, though her head was slightly bent--for she was smelling an American Beauty rose. A large vase of the same expensive flowers adorned one corner of her desk.

Only a momentary glimpse did Merriam and Rockwell have of this pretty tableau, for Dr. Hobart at once straightened up as if in some embarrassment and came towards them.

"I was just thinking it was about time for you to be back," he said, though he surely did not expect them to believe that he had just been thinking anything of the sort.

The pretty floor clerk, no whit nonplused, bowed and smiled at Rockwell. But she studiously failed to observe Senator Norman's presence.

Dr. Hobart walked down the hall with them.

"How's Norman?" Rockwell asked.

"No better, I'm afraid," said the physician apologetically. "He has a high fever, and a while ago he was slightly delirious. I had to give him more of the drug. He's sleeping again now. Simpson is with him, of course."

"Damn!" said Rockwell, with a sort of deliberate earnestness.

They reached the sitting room and entered it. There was no one there. Simpson was apparently in the Senator's bedroom. Merriam dropped into a chair and closed his eyes again. Rockwell walked across to a window and stood staring out. Dr. Hobart stopped uncertainly in the middle of the room and fiddled with a cigarette without being able to make up his mind to light it. For several moments none of them spoke.

But Rockwell was not the man to remain long in any apathy of inaction. He turned suddenly, and Merriam, whom the prolonged unnatural silence had caused to open his eyes, saw that he had made up his mind to something.

"Hobart," he said, "I suppose Simpson isn't practically necessary in there." He indicated the sick room.

"N-no," said Dr. Hobart, "I suppose not. He's just watching. Norman will sleep soundly for some time."

"Then ask him to come here, will you?"

The physician disappeared into the bedroom and in a moment returned with Simpson.

"Simpson," said Rockwell, "we're going to have a meal here, for nine people. A luncheon, if you like. But make it hearty. Choose the stuff yourself, and serve it as quickly as you can, please."

For a moment Simpson stared. Then, as if remembering a nearly forgotten cue, he replied submissively, "Yes, sir," and turned to the door.

As that door closed behind Simpson, Merriam suddenly stood up.

"I must send a telegram to Riceville," he said, starting for the writing table for a blank.

"Wait a bit," said Rockwell. "You can send it just as well an hour from now."

Merriam was disposed to argue, but just then the rest of their party trooped in, having returned to the hotel in Mayor Black's car.

Alicia walked straight up to Merriam, gay with enthusiasm, caught his hand, and squeezed it.

"My dear boy," she cried, "it was perfectly splendid! I've half a mind to kiss you!"

"Please do," said Merriam.

"I will," said Alicia promptly, and before the young man could realise what was happening she had put her gloved hands on his shoulders and kissed him on one cheek.

Merriam was vastly astonished. In the circles in which he had moved in Riceville or even at college, his remark could have been taken only as a daring pleasantry. But he undoubtedly had _sang froid_, for he concealed his confusion, or most of it, and said:

"Let me turn the other cheek."

"Oh, I mustn't be a pig," said Alicia. "I'll leave the other cheek for Mollie June."

At this Merriam's confusion became, I fear, perfectly apparent, for the remainder of the party had followed Alicia into the room and were grouped about him.

"Kiss him quick, Mollie dear," said the incorrigible Alicia, thereby causing confusion in a second person present.

But Mayor Black, no longer to be restrained, saved the situation. He seized Merriam's hand and pumped it.

"One of the best speeches I ever heard the Senator make!" he asserted, in tones which Merriam feared might rouse the real Senator in the adjoining room.

Mr. Wayward meanwhile was patting him on the back and murmuring, "Fine! Excellent!"

Merriam turned to Aunt Mary:

"I tried to do it justice," he said.

"You gave it exceedingly well," said Aunt Mary, with less reserve than he had ever seen her exhibit before.

"Indeed you did!" cried Mollie June earnestly, her eyes shining with sincerity.

And that tribute, from the least qualified judge of them all, was, I regret to state, the one which young Merriam treasured the most.

Simpson, who had worked with amazing alacrity, and even inspired his assistants to celerity had completed his preparations and announced that he was ready to serve the luncheon.

Rockwell delayed the meal for several minutes the sake of an apparently important conference into which he had drawn Mr. Wayward and the Mayor over by the window.

Presently, however, they all sat down, with Merriam beside Mollie June. The luncheon passed, as luncheons do, in small talk and anecdote.

At last Rockwell, having finished the last morsel of a piece of French pastry, laid down his fork and fixed his eyes significantly on Mr. Wayward, who was in mid-career with something like his fifteenth anecdote. Mr. Wayward faltered but rallied and finished his story. It was the best one he had told, but there was only perfunctory laughter. Every one about the table was looking at Rockwell, realising that at last the great question that was in all their minds, "What are we to do next?" was to be discussed and decided. Simpson, it should be added, had dismissed his assistants as soon as the dessert course was served, so that only the initiated were present.

Three times during the meal Dr. Hobart had left the table to enter the sick room. On the second occasion he had remained away some minutes. Rockwell now turned to him.

"Give us your report, Doctor," he said abruptly.

"Well," replied the physician, "he is better. Half an hour ago he was awake for perhaps five minutes. His temperature is lower, though he still has some fever. He is sleeping again now, more quietly than at any time since he returned to the hotel. In short, he is doing as well as could be expected. But it is out of the question for him to start on that speech-making tour this evening."

"Undoubtedly," said Aunt Mary, with much decision.

"Just so," said Rockwell. "That being the case, two alternatives present themselves: to announce his illness and call off the trip, or to go on playing the game as we have begun, with Mr. Merriam's help."

Merriam gasped and opened his mouth to protest, but Rockwell waved him down.

"The Mayor and Mr. Wayward and I have been discussing the matter. At first blush, there may seem to be little question as to which of these two courses we should pursue. Having come safely--so far as we know at least--through all the perils of discovery thus far, it may seem that we should tempt fortune no further, but let Mr. Merriam return to his school, publish the fact of the Senator's illness, and cancel the speaking engagements."

"Surely yes," interjected Merriam, and Aunt Mary and Father Murray and Mollie June and even Alicia seemed to assent.

"On further consideration," Rockwell continued imperturbably, "I think you will all see that the thing is not so clear. The course I have just suggested may be--doubtless is--the more prudent one, if prudence were all, but it is decidedly unfair to George Norman."

At this Aunt Mary almost visibly pricked up her ears.

"In his name," Rockwell went on, "we have thrown over the conservative wing of the party, with whom he has always stood and who have supported him--have 'betrayed' them, as they will put it, in this traction matter and in aligning him with the Reform League. We did so on the theory that he was to appeal to the people and to come back stronger than ever as the leader of the new and growing progressive element, which is sure to be dominant in the next election if only they can find such a leader as Norman could be. But if we cancel this trip and let him drop out of the campaign, if we stop now, where will he be? He will have lost his old backers and will not have made new ones. He will be politically dead. We shall have played absolutely into the hands of Crockett and Thompson and the rest of the gang, and shall have accomplished nothing but the political ruin of George Norman."

All the persons about the table except Mayor Black and Mr. Wayward stared hard at Rockwell as this new view of their predicament sank into their minds. The Mayor and Mr. Wayward smiled and nodded and watched the effect on the others. Particularly they watched Merriam, who sat dumfounded and vaguely alarmed. What new entanglements was Rockwell devising for him? He must get back to Riceville. Involuntarily--he could not have said why--he cast a quick glance at Mollie June, and encountered a similar glance from her. They both looked away in confusion.

Aunt Mary spoke:

"Tell us your plan."

It was like her--that masterful acceptance, without comment, of the situation.

"My plan, as you call it," said Rockwell, fixing his eyes not on Aunt Mary but on Merriam, "is simply that we should go on for another day or two as we have begun--play the game for George until he can take the cards in his own hands. This is Thursday. He is scheduled to leave this evening for Cairo, to speak there at nine o'clock to-morrow morning, to go on to East St. Louis for a talk before the Rotary Club at noon, and then up to Springfield for an address in the evening. Is that correct?"

"Yes," said Aunt Mary. "And he was to speak in Bloomington and Peoria on Saturday and in Moline and Freeport on Sunday."

"The speeches are all ready, I believe?"

"Yes. George and I outlined them together some time ago, and I have them written and typed."

"Exactly. Turn the manuscripts over to Mr. Merriam as you did this morning. He will have time on the train on the way to each place to master the speech to be given at that point. We shall take a special car. Mr. Wayward and I will go with him. You"--he was addressing Aunt Mary--"and the Mayor and Dr. Hobart--and Simpson," he added, glancing up at the waiter, who stood listening in the background,--"and the rest of you will stay here to guard George. That will be easy when the newspapers are full of his speeches out in the State."

"Mr. Crockett will know," said Father Murray timidly.

"He may suspect," said Rockwell with a grin. "But if you keep every one away from George--conceal his presence here,--he can't be sure whether it's George himself or his double who is speech-making over the State. And if he were sure, he wouldn't dare denounce him. Thanks to Mr. Merriam's clever trick last night, he has a particularly strong reason for keeping his mouth shut. If on the other hand we give up and lie down--cancel the trip,--he can easily start all manner of nasty stories about his escapades. I'm sorry to say it, but George has a pretty widespread sporting reputation." Rockwell glanced apologetically at Mollie June, but continued. "When a man with such a character is laid up, people are ready to believe anything except that he is really legitimately sick. Things will be safer here than they would be if we abandoned our trick. And our part out in the State will be 'nuts,' compared to what it was at the Urban Club this noon, for instance. Very few people out there know Norman well. There is no question at all that Mr. Merriam will get by. And we know from this noon that he will make the speeches in fine shape."

"The speeches will need to be altered a bit," said Aunt Mary, "if they are to appeal to the progressives."

"Mr. Merriam can attend to that on the train," said Rockwell. "Soften the standpattism and throw in some progressive dope. Can't you?" He appealed to Merriam.

"I suppose I could," said Merriam, "but--my school."

"I know," said Rockwell, "but it will be only a day or two longer. We'll telegraph again, of course. If you were really sick, as we've been telling them, they'd have to get along, wouldn't they? You've got to see us through. We must keep the ball rolling. It will probably be only one more day. George will be able to travel to-morrow, I presume?" he asked of Dr. Hobart. "By noon, anyway?"

"By noon, I hope," said the physician with cheerful optimism.

"You see?" said Rockwell. "George can catch the noon train for Springfield and get there in time to take on the evening speech. Mr. Merriam will have made the two at Cairo and East St. Louis. He can go back to Riceville from Springfield."

Just then the telephone rang, and I believe every person in the room jumped.

Rockwell rose to answer it.

"Senator Norman? Yes, he is here. But he is engaged. This is Mr. Rockwell, his manager. You can give the message to me."

A moment later he put his hand over the receiver and turned to Merriam.

"He insists on speaking to the Senator. You'll have to answer. I think it's Crockett. For Heaven's sake, be careful!"

Merriam took the receiver:

"Hello!"

A voice which he remembered only too well from the night before at Jennie's replied:

"This is Mr. Crockett, I have the honour, I believe, of speaking to Mr. Merriam."

"You have the wrong number!" said Merriam and hung up.

But before he had had time to explain to the others or even to wonder whether he had done wisely, the bell jangled again. He turned back to the instrument. Rockwell came quickly to his side, and Merriam, taking down the receiver, held it so that his "manager" too should be able to hear what came over the wire.

"Hello!"

"Ah! Senator Norman, by your voice," said Crockett in tones of elaborate irony. "I wish to congratulate you, Senator, on your speech this noon. It was a magnificent effort. So full of progressive ideas and youthful virility!"

"Thank you," said Merriam.

"And, Senator, I really must see you right away. I am calling from the lobby. I will come up to your rooms at once, if I may. Or meet you anywhere else you say. It is of the utmost importance to you, Mr. Mer----" (he pretended to correct himself) "to you, Senator, as well as to me."

"Wait a minute," said Merriam. He put his hand over the mouthpiece and looked at Rockwell.

"Tell him you will see him at eight o'clock this evening, here."

Merriam repeated this message.

"At _eight_?" said Crockett, with significant emphasis on the hour. "Very good, Senator. Thank you." He hung up.

Rockwell and Merriam turned to the others. Aunt Mary and the rest had risen. They were standing by their places about the table, looking rather scared.

"_Eight_ o'clock?" questioned Aunt Mary, with an emphasis similar to Crockett's.

"Yes," said Rockwell doggedly. "Because"--he addressed Merriam--"your train goes at seven. At seven-thirty Miss Norman shall telephone Crockett, expressing your regret that you overlooked the fact that you would have to be gone by that time. Man alive!" he cried. "Don't you see? The Senator can't be sick now--after your public appearance this noon. Half the people who count in Chicago saw you--him, there--right as a trivet--obviously perfectly well. And we can't keep _you_ here, with Crockett and Thompson continually nosing 'round. There's nothing for it but for you to start on that trip. The trip's a godsend. Write your telegram to Riceville!"

Merriam glanced around the circle of faces. Mad as the thing was, they all seemed to agree with Rockwell. Mayor Black and Mr. Wayward and even Simpson seemed to be asking him, as man to man, to stand by them. Father Murray was timidly expectant. Dr. Hobart, he noticed, was staring down at the table as if in thought. Aunt Mary, looking him full in the eyes, gave an affirmative nod. Alicia's eyes and shoulders registered appeal as conspicuously as if she had been a movie actress. And Mollie June seemed to be begging him not to desert her.

With a gesture of resignation he went over to the writing table and sat down to compose his third mendacious telegram to Riceville.

*CHAPTER XXVI*

*THE BUSINESS OF BEING AN IMPOSTOR*

The writing of that telegram occupied Merriam for several minutes. He was distracted by scruples. He did not like lying, and he felt, truly enough, that he was cheating his employers, the Board of Education of Riceville, and the patrons of the school, and his boys and girls, by staying away from the work he was paid to do.

When, after a last momentary hesitation, he wrote his name and looked up, he found Simpson standing by him, ready to take the message. He noticed the man's new air of cheerfulness.

But he had no time to reflect on this phenomenon, for the party was breaking up.

There were four of them left--Merriam and Rockwell, Aunt Mary and Mollie June.

"Well," said Rockwell, with a sigh, "we're off again. You'd better go to your own room--Mr. Wilson's room. I promised the reporters to see them at half past four, and it's nearly that now. You'll need to pack. Take these speeches with you. I'll let you know when the taxi comes."

In a moment Merriam was crossing the Senator's room. Involuntarily he cast a glance at the sick man in the bed. In a small chair by the head of the bed Mollie June was sitting, her eyes on her husband. She looked up as Merriam traversed the room, met his gaze soberly for an instant, and then looked back at Norman.

Merriam passed through the door on the other side into his own room. He closed the door softly behind him, set the portfolio on a chair, and put his hand to his forehead. The tiny connubial tableau of which he had just had a glimpse had brought home to him, as nothing before had done, the fact that Mollie June really was another man's wife. The acute realisation left him blank. He crossed over, sank into a chair by the window, and stared out across the fire escape. Another man's wife! And he loved her. Of course he loved her, just as he had always done. And she loved him, a little at least. That such a thing should happen to him--and her! Because he had been a coward three years ago in Riceville!

How long he sat dully revolving such thoughts as these he had no idea. He was startled by the opening of the door from the Senator's bedroom. He sprang to his feet with the involuntary thought that it might be Mollie June--though of course she would have knocked. It was Simpson.

"Shall I pack your things, sir?"

"Why--yes," said Merriam.

He knew from novels that the valet of the hero always packs his bag. Evidently Simpson had come in this capacity. To Merriam's American self-sufficiency it seemed an absurd practice. Why shouldn't any man put his own things into a grip for himself? But he was glad of company.

"You can help," he added, and took a couple of steps in the direction of the bureau, with the idea of taking things out of drawers.

"Oh, don't bother, sir!" said Simpson quickly. In his tone there was something subtly patronising. For he who has been a butler and a waiter and a valet among the real elite feels even himself to be socially superior to the unbutlered and unvaleted.

"Simpson," said Merriam suddenly, "you've seen Jennie!"

Simpson stopped absolutely still for a moment with a couple of folded shirts in his hands. Then he placed the shirts in the suit case, straightened up, and looked at Merriam.

"Yes, Mr."--he hesitated and decided to use the real name--"yes, Mr. Merriam, I have. I went out there this morning, as you suggested."

"She let you in?"

"Yes she did. She let me sit down on the sofa with her, and we had a long talk. I ended by asking her again to marry me--and she said she would."

"And she kissed you!" Merriam cried gaily. He had for the moment forgotten his own troubles in Simpson's happiness, for which he rightly felt he might claim some credit, and in an appreciative recollection of Jennie's temperament. Within a dozen hours she had also kissed Crockett and himself. But Jennie was born to kiss.

Simpson looked quickly at the younger man and returned to his packing. "Yes," he said, "she did."

Merriam regretted his exclamation, which had, in fact, told too much. For several minutes he watched in silence the deft, efficient work of his companion. Then he asked:

"When is it to be?"

"The wedding, sir?"

"Yes."

"As soon as you and Mr. Rockwell can spare me, sir."

Simpson closed the hand bag, closed the suit case and strapped it.

"Is there anything else I can do, sir?"

"I believe not."

The waiter hesitated. Then he decided to speak what was in his heart:

"I am very greatly indebted to you, sir," he said, with an admirable combination of dignity and feeling. "You have made a happy man of a very wretched one and have--saved a young girl who was on a very wrong track. If ever I can render you any service, you can always command me, sir."

Merriam sprang up and advanced, holding out his hand.

"I'm tremendously glad," he said. "I have accomplished one thing anyway with all this miserable imposture."

Simpson shook his hand heartily. Then:

"Shall I leave you now, sir?"

"Why, yes, please," said Merriam. He was loth, to be left alone, but there was clearly nothing more to be said between him and Simpson.

In a moment the waiter had withdrawn through the door into the Senator's bedroom. Merriam's thoughts followed him into that room, where Mollie June doubtless still sat by her husband's bed.

But just then a knock sounded at the hall door. He looked up startled. He was not expecting any one to approach from that direction. Who could have any business with "Mr. Wilson"?

Another knock. Merriam hesitated. Should he go to the door, or simply sit tight till the knocker became convinced that there was no one within and went away? He decided upon the latter course. Any one whom he ought to see Rockwell would bring to him.

A third time the knock sounded, discreet but persistent. Then suddenly a key was inserted in the lock and turned, the door opened, and in stepped--Crockett!

Merriam sprang to his feet but did not speak.

"Thank you," said Crockett over his shoulder--to whom Merriam could not see.

He closed the door and advanced:

"Is it Mr. Wilson?" he asked ironically, "or Mr. Merriam--or Senator Norman?"

"Is it Mr. Crockett, the financier, or a house-breaker?" Merriam retorted.

Mr. Crockett laughed, but it was an unpleasant, forced laugh.

"Since you do not answer my question," he said, "I don't see that I need answer yours. See here," he continued, with a change of tone, "how much is it worth to you to turn over to me those pictures you took last night--films and all, of course--and get out of this?"

"You won't accomplish anything by insulting me!" cried Merriam, a flare of youthful anger somewhat impairing his dignity.

"Insulting you!" echoed Crockett sneeringly. "My dear sir, as a complete impostor you can hardly expect to get away with that pose. I'll admit you're good at it. That impersonation of the Senator before the Urban Club this noon was a masterpiece. But what's the game? Does Rockwell really suppose he can swing Senator Norman over permanently to the so-called Reformers? Let me tell you that as soon as the real Norman is on his feet again Thompson and I and the rest of us will get hold of him and bring him around in no time. We know too many things about your handsome Boy Senator. He can't shake us now. So what's the use? Unless," he added suddenly, "the plan is to kill him off and substitute you permanently!"

"Hardly so desperate as that," said Merriam, smiling. The other man's long speech had given him time to recover himself.

"Well, then, why not make a good thing out of it for yourself and get away while you can? It isn't as if no one had suspected you. _I_ not only suspect but know. I haven't told any one else yet, but you can hardly expect me to keep your secret indefinitely."

"You forget the pictures," said Merriam, as sweetly as he could.

Crockett obviously mastered a "damn" and chased the expression that rose to accompany it from his face.

"Let's keep to business," he said. "How much is Rockwell paying you for this job?"

"No monetary consideration has been mentioned between us," said Merriam. It was the truth, of course, but perhaps he need not have been so stilted about it.

"You surely don't expect me to believe that. Come! Whatever the amount is, I'll double it. All I ask of you is, first, to hand over to me the pictures, and, second, to pick up your bags, which I see are already packed, and walk out of that door with me. We'll step across the street to my bank, I'll pay you the sum in cash, and you can skidoo. No exposure is involved, you see--of you or your friends. I'm not revengeful. I don't need to be. All I have to do is to wait until I can get hold of Norman. In the meantime you get clear of a situation that otherwise is likely to prove very nasty for you personally and very nasty likewise for your Reformer associates. You will note that I trust to your honour to give me all the copies of the pictures and not to sting me on the amount I am to pay you."

"Honour among thieves?" queried Merriam.

"Who's insulting now?" Crockett demanded.

"I am," said Merriam. "At least, I'm trying my best to be. Mr. Crockett, you spoke of walking out of that door. I'll thank you to do that very thing--at once! If you don't, I'll call in Mr. Rockwell, and we'll put you out. I'm tempted to try it by myself, but I don't care to risk any noisy scuffling."

"Prudent young man!" sneered Crockett, retreating nevertheless in the direction of the hall door. "I understand that you reject my offer?"

"I certainly do."

"Very good. I hereby serve notice on you that I shall immediately expose the whole of your atrocious masquerade! It will be the ruin of you and Rockwell and Norman and Mayor Black and every other person who has been mixed up in it. Oh, you'll be a nine days' wonder in the city, but no one of you will ever have a scrap of public credit again!"

"And on the following day," retorted Merriam, "those pretty pictures we know of will be published in _Tidbits_. They'll be running sketches called 'A Financier in a Flat' in every music hall in town."

"You blackmailer!"

"On the contrary you've tried to get me to take blackmail and I've refused it."

With a sound remarkably like the snarling "bah" which regularly accompanies the retreat of the foiled villain of melodrama, Crockett turned towards the door through which he had been invited to depart. But in the course of the three or four steps which he had to take to reach, that exit he recovered something of his dignity and finesse.

Having opened the door, he turned and bowed ironically.

"Good evening, Senator," he said. "I'm afraid I shall be prevented from keeping my appointment with you at eight. If you should change your mind within the next half hour, you can reach me by 'phone at the Union League. Otherwise, look out!"

On this warning note he closed the door behind him.

Merriam found himself with a whirling brain. As a quiet pedagogue he was not accustomed to scenes of battle such as he had just passed through. He walked up and down and mechanically lit a cigarette.

As he did so, his mind seized upon one question. Who had unlocked the door for Crockett? Some chambermaid or bell boy? Or the floor clerk? At any rate it must have been done with her connivance and by her authority, for she was the commanding general of Floor Three. Why had she done or permitted this outrageous thing? Suddenly Merriam recalled her studied ignoring of him on the last two occasions of his passing her desk, and compared it with her whispered "The violets are lovely" when he first asked for Senator Norman's key. There had been something between her and Norman. He, Merriam, in taking on the Senator's role had dropped out that part of it, and she was offended. How seriously he could not tell.

He concluded that he must attempt to reinstate himself--Norman--in the pretty floor clerk's good graces, and rather hastily decided upon a plan, He went to the telephone and asked for the hotel florist. How much were violets? Well, they had some lovely large bunches for five dollars. This figure rather staggered the rural pedagogue, but he promptly asked to have one of those bunches sent up at once to "Mr. Wilson," giving his room number, 325. He would present his peace offering in person. "I am sure these flowers will look lovely on your desk--or if you will wear them at your waist?" he would say, or something of the sort. This was probably not the way Senator Norman would have done--he would have run no such open risk,--but we must make allowances for Merriam's inexperience.

But he never carried out his ill-conceived plan. For he had barely left the telephone when he was arrested by a light knock on the door leading into the Senator's bedroom. This time he was sure it was Mollie June, and he was right.

When he opened the door she stood there with a finger at her lips.

"Aunt Mary has taken my place with George," she said in a low tone. "She says I may give you some tea. It will be late before you can get your dinner on the train. Would you like it?"

"Tremendously," said Merriam sincerely.

"Come into the sitting room, then."

She crossed the sick room to the door at the other side which led to the sitting room, and he followed, with a nod to Aunt Mary, who now sat by the sleeping Senator's bed.

Arrived in the sitting room, he was further delighted to find that neither Rockwell nor Simpson was present. It was to be a genuine tete-a-tete. By one of the windows stood a small table with the tea things upon it, the kettle already singing over an alcohol flame. Beside the table stood a large armchair and a small rocker.

"The big chair is for you," said Mollie June, seating herself in the rocker and adjusting the flame.

"Thank you," he said and sat. Then a mingling of pleasure and embarrassment held him awkwardly silent.

Mollie June was apparently quite composed.

"George is ever so much better," she said. "He was awake a few minutes ago, and he seemed almost well. He has only a very little fever left."

She smiled brightly at Merriam, who dimly realised that it was to the fact that her mind was now at ease about her husband that he owed this treat.

Mollie June set a brightly flowered cup on a saucer to match and placed a small spoon beside it. Then she took up the sugar tongs, and her hand hovered over the bowl.

"One lump or two?"

"Two, please," said Merriam, noting the slenderness and whiteness of the fingers that held the tongs and the pinkness of the small nails. (Why else except to display charming fingers and nails were sugar tongs invented?)

"Lemon or cream?"

Merriam was sophisticated enough to know that the right answer was "Lemon," but he preferred cream, and an admirable instinct of honesty led him to say so.

Through the open window came the pleasant air of the spring afternoon. The canyon-like street without, being an east-and-west street, was flooded with sunlight. With the breeze there entered also the stimulating roar of the city's lively traffic. The breeze stirred Mollie June's soft wavy hair. It also caused the alcohol flame under the brass kettle to flutter and sputter, and Mollie June leaned forward to regulate it. The youthful firmness of her cheeks and chin showed like a lovely cameo in the bright light, which would have been unkind to an older face. Having adjusted the flame, she suddenly looked up at Merriam and smiled.

"Mollie June," he cried, "there is nothing lovelier in the world than your eyes when you look up and smile like that!"

He had not meant to say anything of that sort, but it was forced out of him.

Mollie June's smile lingered, and the cameo became faintly, charmingly tinted. But she evidently felt that some rebuke was needed.

"_Mrs._ Mollie June, you must remember," she said gently.

Then, taking up her cup and leaning back in her small rocker, she asked:

"How did you get along with the speeches?"

"Not very well," said Merriam. He hesitated in his mind whether to tell her of Crockett's interruption but decided not to. It would take too long--he could not waste the precious minutes so. "I'll have the dickens of a time with them," he added.

"Oh, no, you won't!" she cried, as if shocked at the idea. "You were wonderful this noon. I was so proud of you."

"You had a right to be," said Merriam. "It was because you were there that I could do well." Which was perhaps partially true.

"Why don't you go into it yourself?" asked Mollie June.

"Public life? Perhaps I will. I may go back to the University for a law course and then try to get into politics."

This plan had just occurred to Merriam, but he did not disclose that fact. In uttering one's inspirations to a pretty woman one usually presents them as though they were the fruit of mature consideration.

"That would be fine," said Mollie June without much enthusiasm. "But you'll be at Riceville next year?"

"I suppose so. I'll have to save up a bit more."

"I may be at home for Christmas," she said. "I'll see you then."

Merriam considered this painfully.

"No," he said at last slowly. "I shan't be there. I shall be away for the holidays."

"You could stay over," said Mollie June, wonderingly reproachful.

"I suppose I could. But I mustn't. Just to see you--publicly, is too hard on me. And if I see you alone like this,--I say things I oughtn't to--make love to you."

Mollie June sat drooping, with downcast eyes, her cup in her lap.

Suddenly he was on his knees beside her. He put his arms about her, to the great peril of flowered china.

"Mollie June!" he whispered. He softly kissed her cheek.

She raised her eyes and looked deep into his.

"John!" she whispered back, though she seemed to struggle not to do so.

After a moment he smiled sadly and got to his feet.

"I mustn't have any more tea," he said, as if that beverage was too intoxicating, as indeed under the circumstances it was.

Fortunately--since of all things what they needed was a diversion,--Merriam at that moment became conscious of a portentous knocking on a distant door. He realised that it was on the door to "Mr. Wilson's" room and remembered. The flowers--for the floor clerk!

He hurried to the hall and called the boy from the second door down the corridor, where he was about to pound again.

In a moment he reentered the room, bearing a lovely great bunch of fragrant English violets--and thinking hard. But he was equal to the emergency.

He advanced to Mollie June, who stood now with her back to the window, her slender form outlined against the light, her face in shadow.

"I've never given you anything, Mollie June," he said. "These are for you--and the sick room." He held them for her to smell.

She took them from him, barely touching his hand as she did so, and buried her face in them for a long minute. Then she raised her eyes to him over them.

"Thank you, Mr. John," she said with a sad smile.

And just then Aunt Mary entered from the Senator's bedroom.

"See what Mr. Merriam has ordered for George!" said Mollie June. "Isn't he thoughtful?"

"Very," said Aunt Mary, in her customary dry tone.

*CHAPTER XXVII*

*THE CODE TELEGRAM*

Rockwell had returned with Alicia. He briskly declared that it was time to start for the train. Mayor Black, it appeared, was below in his car and was going to the station with them.

"I've told Simpson to take your bags down. Except the portfolio. You'd better keep that in your own hands. What progress with the speeches?"

"Not much," said Merriam. "But I shall have the whole evening on the train. I'll get them."

He crossed the sick room, where Dr. Hobart was now bending over the Senator, apparently making an examination. He thrust the pile of manuscripts back into the portfolio. Then, after a glance about the room, reminiscent of his burglarious entry the night before, he caught up his coat and hat and returned to the sitting room again.

"Are we ready?" he asked of Rockwell.

"Waiting for Hobart--for a final report on the Senator's condition."

"Aren't you coming to the station with us, Mollie June?" Alicia was saying.

"No," said Mollie June, her eyes on a large bunch of violets which she was arranging in a bowl. "I must stay with my husband."

"But Aunt Mary will be here. I think she owes it to you to come with us, don't you, Mr. Merriam?"

"No," said Merriam, "I think she is right in staying."

Alicia looked from him to Mollie June, then shrugged her shoulders and turned to Rockwell, who was cautioning Aunt Mary--as if Aunt Mary ever needed cautioning!--about maintaining the closest possible guard on the Senator's rooms in their absence.

Merriam moved to Mollie June's side.

"I shan't see you again," he said.

"No," said Mollie June.

For a single moment she looked up from the flowers into his face. Her eyes held tears, and she blushed slightly. In her look he read unwilling love and shame.

He would have moved away, impotently miserable, but her hand, which had dropped to her side between them, suddenly touched his, closed in his for an instant, and was withdrawn, leaving something--something very small, cool, and fragile--a single violet.

He understood, of course, that it was to be his souvenir of her, all he could have of her, through the long years to come while she played out her loathsome role as the wife of the dissipated Boy Senator and he taught school at Riceville or--what did it matter what he did?

His hand closed quickly on the violet, and he turned to face Dr. Hobart, who was just entering from the sick room.

The physician was highly reassuring. The Senator was doing very well indeed.

"He'll be able to meet us in Springfield, then, to-morrow night?" demanded Rockwell.

"I think he'll be well enough to do that," returned Hobart, with a slight evasiveness which Rockwell and Merriam had occasion a few hours later to recall with some vividness. But at the moment they scarcely noticed it.

"Good!" cried Rockwell. "We're off. No! Wait."

He drew a folded paper from his pocket and handed it to Aunt Mary.

"This paper describes a simple form of code telegram. Use it in your messages to us in regard to the Senator's progress and when and where he is to join us. You'll wire at least once a day, of course."

"Yes," said Aunt Mary, accepting the paper.

Merriam shook hands with Aunt Mary.

"I hope," she said, "that some day, after all this is over, we may be able to have you visit us, when George can thank you for the inestimable service you have rendered him."

"I should be delighted," Merriam murmured, though he had no great mind to be thanked by George Norman.

Then he shook hands with Mollie June and met her eyes for a moment, but, under the gaze of Aunt Mary and Rockwell and Alicia, "Good-bye," was all he could say.

"Good-bye. Thank you for--everything," she replied, and her eyes followed his figure as Rockwell swept him from the room.

The closing of the door of the Senator's sitting room upon Merriam marked the beginning of a period of a dozen hours or more that was utterly phantasmal and unreal to him both at the time and in his recollection afterwards. He seemed to move and speak and act without volition and without any clear realisation of what he was doing or why he was doing it.

After dinner with Rockwell and Mr. Wayward--an excellent meal served in the private car by an amiable gentleman of colour, Merriam read the speech which he was to deliver at Cairo in the morning, and then had to pull himself together and commit that speech, but he did even this mechanically. And finally to bed in his compartment, at first to a long, uneasy dream, in which he appeared to be making an interminable speech to an audience consisting of Mollie June, Jennie, an inattentive floor clerk, Aunt Mary, and Simpson, and then to a heavy slumber, from which he was roused with difficulty the next morning.

In the morning it was the same way with him--everything dully unreal. Breakfast. Going over the speech again. Then it was nine o'clock, and the train was running into Cairo. A crowd at the station. A cheer or two. He was being assisted into an automobile. A sort of procession with a band through several blocks of streets to a small park.

Merriam found himself sitting with Rockwell and Mr. Wayward and several local notables in a band stand, with a considerable concourse of people sitting and standing about on the grass below. Some native orator made a short speech. A number by the band. Then the Mayor of Cairo was effusively introducing Senator Norman. The Mayor sat down amid applause.

Merriam rose, advanced to the rail, and began on his speech. He felt himself to be a sort of animated phonograph. The words which he had learned the night before and reviewed that morning ran trippingly off his tongue. His collegiate training and subsequent experience in public speaking came to the aid of his subconscious self, which seemed to be functioning with practically no direction from his higher centers. He turned pleasantly as he spoke to face now one part of his circle of auditors and now another. He suited his tone to the words in different parts of the speech. He even achieved an occasional appropriate gesture.

At last he came to the end of what he had learned and stopped as the phonograph stops when the end of a record is reached. And for a moment he stood there by the rail, blank, at a loss--as a phonograph would have stood. He had to rouse himself with a jerk of conscious attention before he perceived that what he had to do next was to step back and sit down.

The applause was fairly satisfactory. The Mayor of Cairo leaned across Rockwell to shake hands and congratulate him, and Mr. Wayward, on the other side, patted his shoulder and said, "Good enough!" And the band struck into a patriotic air.

Merriam awoke. It was as if lights had been turned on and doors opened. He realised that it was a bright, sunny morning, that a band was playing, that he, John Merriam, was alive and young, and that he was having a whimsically glorious adventure which he could not afford to miss the joy of even if Mollie June was Senator Norman's wife.

In this rejuvenated mood he joyously descended with the others from the band stand and climbed into the automobile and lay back happily, between Rockwell and the Cairo Mayor, to relish the slow processional drive--still preceded by the band--back to the station.

"Feeling better?" asked Rockwell, who had not failed to note his previous lethargy.

"Feeling fine!" he replied, and gave his attention to the scenery of Cairo's Main Street and the crowds therein, waiting eagerly for a glimpse of the remarkable Boy Senator.

As the automobile passed close to the curb on turning a corner, Merriam caught one remark:

"He does look just like a young man!"

The speaker was a decidedly pretty girl in a boldish sort of way. Merriam sensed and seized upon the privileges of age. He leaned forward:

"Thank you, my dear," he said. "At least I'm young enough to know a pretty girl when I see one."