Part 15 (2/2)
Quatremain looked at his watch. It was 7.55, to the minute, and he walked leisurely around to the private car.
”Well?” said the President, and the steady gaze of the cold eye slew the falsehood which the secretary was about to utter.
”He's in the telegraph office with one of his people,” Quatremain replied, angry enough to curse himself for being so weak as to tell the truth.
”Very good. Go into my stateroom and get the mail ready. I'll come in and dictate to you presently.”
The secretary obeyed as one who may not do otherwise, and left the stateroom door ajar. A moment later, he heard a tap at the door of Gertrude's room, and then the President and his daughter left the car together. Quatremain slammed down the cover of his desk, s.n.a.t.c.hed his hat, and followed them. He had paid the servile price, and he would at least gratify his curiosity.
He caught sight of them in the crowd streaming out toward the Colorado Central train, and scored the first point when he observed that the President made a detour to avoid pa.s.sing the open door of the telegraph office. Then he kept them in view till he saw Miss Vennor give her hand to Burton at the steps of one of the narrow-gauge cars.
At that moment, Mrs. Burton, who was comfortably established in the midst of a carful of the Tadmorians, chanced to look out of the window.
She saw the President and his daughter come swiftly across the platform, saw her husband step out to meet them and shake hands with Gertrude, remarked the quick flash of glad surprise on the young girl's face, and the nervous anxiety with which the President consulted his watch, and was immediately as well apprised of the inwardness of the little plot as if she had devised it herself.
”Oh! _oh!_” she said to herself, with indignant emphasis; ”that venerable old tyrant is turning her over to us to get her out of Fred's way! _And he hasn't told her that Fred isn't going!_”
Now, to the Emily Burton type of woman-kind, the marring of a plot is only less precious than the making of one. The little lady had never been known to think deeply, but a grain of swift wit is sometimes worth an infinity of tardy logic. Whatever intervened, the conclusion was clear and definite; Brockway's chance must be rescued at all hazards--and there were only two minutes in which to do it.
She scanned the throng on the platform eagerly, hoping to catch sight of him, but the faces were all strange save one. That was the face of the President's private secretary; and, without a moment's hesitation, she beckoned him.
Quatremain saw the signal, and made his way to her window, taking care to keep as many human screens as possible between himself and the group at the car steps.
”Mrs. Burton, I believe,” he said, lifting his hat.
”Yes”--hurriedly. ”Do you know Mr. Brockway?”
Quatremain bowed.
”Do you know where he is now?”
”Yes; he's over in the telegraph office.”
”Will you take him a message from me, quickly?”
”Certainly, with pleasure.”
”Then tell him I say he is going to be lost if he doesn't catch this train; he'll understand. And _please_ hurry--there isn't a second to spare!”
Quatremain nodded, and vanished in the crowd. He understood nothing of what was toward, but he suspected that what he was about to do would somehow interfere with the President's plans, and that was sufficient to make him run when he was well out of sight. He found Brockway in the telegraph office, writing a message, with the slope-shouldered gentleman at his elbow, and delivered Mrs. Burton's message _verbatim_ and shorn of any introduction whatsoever.
The effect on the pa.s.senger agent was surprising, if not explanatory.
”Says I'm going to be--Not if I know it! I say, Tom”--flinging the pad of blanks at the operator, to call his attention--”wire anything--everything--this gentleman wants you to; I'm off!”
”But, Mr. ah--Brockway, I--I protest!” buzzed the gadfly, clutching at the pa.s.senger agent; but he was not quick enough, and when the protest was formulated, there was no one but the operator to listen to it.
The engine-bell was ringing and the train had begun to move when Brockway dashed out of the office, and the appreciative bystanders made way for him and cheered him as he sped away across the platform. It was neck-and-neck, and nothing to choose; but he was making it easily, when he collided squarely in mid career with the tall figure of the President. For a single pa.s.sionate instant Mr. Francis Vennor forgot his traditions, and struck out savagely at the pa.s.senger agent. The blow caught Brockway full in the chest and made him gasp and stagger; but he gathered himself quickly, swerved aside, and ran on, catching the rear hand-rail of the last car as the train swept out of the station.
<script>