Leeds of the Star was the first of a group to spy McNew as he swung
past the pillared portico and turned down the asphalt walk to the
office building. Leeds rubbed his eyes and looked again. McNew had not
been to the White House for five years--not since the President had
declared him morally guilty of murder by his having stirred up the
class hatred that had led to it. That he should come there at that late
day meant something out of the ordinary.
Leeds was a local man, however, and did not take a very intense
interest in the doings of New York newspaper proprietors, no matter how
yellow they might be. So he turned to Iverson of the Gazette.
“Isn’t that your boss toting an olive branch up the walk?” he inquired.
Iverson jumped up, and glanced where Leeds pointed. Then, with an
elaborate assumption of indifference, he strolled to the foot of
the steps to meet his chief. His face showed little interest, but
Iverson’s face had long before ceased to be a mirror of his mind. In
reality he was mightily amazed at McNew’s coming. So nonchalantly
did he move that he had gained a dozen steps before any of the other
newspaper men realized the situation. When they did, they tried to
catch up with him without appearing to do so.
McNew, however, appeared to have no desire to make a mystery of his
coming or to give any exclusive information to his own correspondent.
He nodded to him indifferently; then glanced at the other men.
“Good-morning! Good-morning! Gentlemen!” he called. “What do you know?”
Clark of the Post answered him. “Don’t know a thing, Mr. McNew. What’s
the news from New York?”
“Read it in the Gazette,” retorted McNew. “Is the president on view
today?”
O’Laughlin of the World shook his head. “Nothing doing today,” he
answered. “Cabinet day, you know, Mr. McNew!”
McNew shrugged his shoulders. “Oh! well!” he remarked. “It doesn’t
matter. His secretary will do. Sorry, boys! But I haven’t a bit of news
to give you. I’m here on personal business. Good-morning.”
He strove to push through the ring of newspaper men, but they closed up
and stood so firm that he would have had to use some force to get away.
So he laughed and stood still. “Well, boys?” he questioned.
O’Laughlin caught his eye. “Who carried the flag of truce?” he demanded.
The sunlight glinted through the trees into McNew’s eyes, masking the
expression that crept into them. “There isn’t any flag of truce,” he
answered slowly. “I am on the same terms with the President today
that I was five years ago. I have business here today, however, and I
came to transact it with the President or his secretary--not with the
man who used his high office to slander me. I did not come to ask any
favors or offer any friendship; I merely come to do business. I may not
even see the President. I hope I make my position clear?”
The men nodded. “Damned clear,” muttered O’Laughlin, but so low that
McNew did not hear him.
“Then once more, good-morning, gentlemen.” The editor passed through
the ring into the building. As he vanished O’Laughlin gazed after him
shrewdly; then turned to Black of the Journal. “Wonder what the devil
he really is here for?” he muttered.
“The devil knows and he won’t split on a pal,” misquoted Black. “Cheer
up! O’Laughlin! You’ll see it all in the Gazette in the morning.”
But O’Laughlin did not see it in the Gazette, either on the next
or on any other day. McNew’s errand at the White House was not for
publication.
Passing through the reception hall, with the air of one used to his
surroundings, the editor nodded to the colored messenger at an inner
door. “Good-morning, Arthur!” he greeted. “Is the secretary at liberty?”
Arthur rose and flung open the door as nimbly as the “rheumatiz”
permitted. “Yes, suh! I think so, suh!” he answered. “Walk right in,
suh! Ain’t nobody yere this mornin’.”
McNew stepped in. A glance showed him that no strangers were present,
and he strode straight up to a man who sat writing at a desk close
beneath the big south windows. Grim lines had suddenly started out in
his face, and when he spoke all lightness had vanished from his tones.
Any one seeing him then could understand how he could have built his
paper up from nothing to be a national power.
“Mr. Secretary,” he said. “I must see the President instantly.”
The secretary laid down his pen and rose slowly to his feet. In his
way he was as strong a character as McNew--not a man to be hurried or
stampeded. “Impossible, just now, Mr. McNew,” he answered briefly.
“After the cabinet meeting, perhaps.”
“Nothing is impossible. I must see him at once. The matter is one of
the very gravest importance. After the cabinet meeting will be too
late.”
The secretary hesitated. “Can you tell me your business?” he asked.
“I should rather not. You know, Mr. Loren, none better, that I am no
friend of the President’s. That I came here at all is evidence that my
errand is important. That I come at such a time ought to be evidence
that it is of national and not merely of personal importance. I want
one minute’s speech with the President. After that, he can go back to
the cabinet meeting--if he wants to. This is serious, Mr. Secretary!
Very serious!”
The secretary rose briskly. When he gave way, he gave way absolutely.
There was no half-way surrender about Loren. “I’ll tell the President,”
he conceded, as he passed to an inner door; “on your head be the
consequences.”
In a moment the President bustled in. Curtly he nodded to McNew. “You
want to see me, Mr. McNew?” he questioned, brusquely.
“Yes! Read this, please.”
Neither man troubled to show much courtesy. Each hated the other with
a cordial hatred that caused any meeting between them to resemble that
between two bulldogs ready yet hesitating to fly at each other. McNew
had published vitriolic things about the President and the President
had retorted more calmly but more bitterly. Each really considered the
other a menace to the country.
Further, the President was vexed at being interrupted. Theoretically
cabinet meetings are affairs of tremendous dignity, not to be lightly
intruded upon. Actually, if rumor speaks true, their importance is
sometimes in inverse ratio to their secrecy.
Nevertheless, the President took the paper that McNew extended to him,
and ran his eye down it. The look of suspicion faded from his face; and
he read it again more slowly. Then he looked up.
“The importance of this lies more in what it infers than in what it
says,” he asserted, sternly; “and both depend on who wrote it. I do not
recognize the signature.”
McNew nodded. “It is a cipher signature,” he explained. “The whole
message came in cipher. The writer is Miss Lillian Byrd, formerly of
this city. You know her, I believe.”
The President nodded. “I know her very well,” he said, “and I have the
greatest confidence in anything she may say. Where is she? How did she
come to send such a message?”
“She is a Gazette correspondent. She has been doing some work in South
America for the Gazette. You may have read her dispatches from there.
They have been very significant. Three weeks ago she left Buenos Ayres
for New York on the steamer Southern Cross. Last night she sent this
dispatch by wireless in code via Guantanamo. I got it in New York at
three o’clock this morning and left for Washington with it an hour
later on a special train.”
“You have not published it?”
“No.”
“Why not? It is a good story. It would cause a sensation. Why do you
not publish it, Mr. McNew?”
McNew’s atramentous face grew darker. “Because, Mr. President,” he
grated; “because I am an American like yourself. I know, Mr. President,
that you think I cater to anarchy for the sake of money. I think that
you--But, no matter; I did not come here to bandy words. Frankly, I
dislike you, Mr. President, and I would never have brought that message
to you if any other course had been possible. I distrust your policies
and disapprove your acts. But you are President and the subject matter
of that dispatch clearly falls within your province. Therefore I bring
it to you. Take it, not as the service of a friend but merely as that
of one who is willing for the moment to sink personal enmity for the
sake of his country.”
The President listened quietly while the editor spoke.
“Agreed,” he answered. “We will work together in this; later if need be
we can again lock horns. You have done neither more nor less than your
duty, Mr. McNew. On its face this dispatch,” he slapped it across his
hand--“this dispatch is incredible. As a theme for an Oppenheim romance
it would be admirable. As a yellow-journal feature story it might sell
a few copies of the Gazette. It would not do more. The only people who
would believe it would be those who already know it to be true--if it
is true. Yet--if it is true--to publish it would do great harm, for it
would show these very people that we know something of their plans.
So I will ask you to suppress it altogether. I will see that you get
another scoop to balance this one. I will tell you that I believe it is
true. I received other information only last night that convinces me.
Now, Mr. McNew, I must see Miss Byrd at the earliest possible moment.”
McNew nodded. “I thought so,” he answered. “That was why I insisted on
seeing you at once. Miss Byrd’s steamer ought to pass outside the capes
of the Chesapeake bound for New York some time tonight. Can you send a
torpedo boat or a cruiser out to intercept her?”
The President turned to his secretary. “Ask Secretary Metson to come
here, Mr. Loren,” he ordered.
Loren slipped into the cabinet room. In an instant he was back. Close
behind him came a stout, sandy-mustached man, who nodded to McNew with
an air of surprise.
The President, however, allowed no time for explanations. “Mr. Metson,”
he questioned, instantly. “Have we any small vessels at Hampton Roads
that can go to sea without delay.”
Metson nodded. “Four or five, I believe,” he answered promptly. “Two
destroyers, one gun-boat, one protected cruiser--”
“Order the swiftest to be ready to leave the instant an officer reaches
her with orders. Can you put your hand on Commander Topham, whom you
brought to me last night, or is he out of reach?”
Metson looked undecided. “I think he is in the navy department now,” he
asserted. “If Mr. Loren will telephone over--”
“Do so, Loren.”
Topham was easily found, and in less than five minutes was in the room.
The President went straight to the point. “Mr. Topham,” he said. “An
American lady, Miss Byrd, a correspondent of the Gazette, will pass the
entrance of Chesapeake Bay on the steamship Southern Cross some time
tonight. I want you to take train--a special if need be”-- He broke
off. “Find out about trains, and order a special at once, if necessary,
Mr. Loren,” he flung over his shoulder. Then: “You will proceed
immediately to Fortress Monroe, Mr. Topham,” he resumed; “go on board a
torpedo boat that will be waiting, intercept the ship, and bring Miss
Byrd here at the earliest possible moment. She will probably be willing
to come. If not, you must try to persuade her.”
“She will come, Mr. President. I know her personally.”
“So much the better. I am sending you, Mr. Topham, because of your
connection with the case. The Count of Ouro Preto is on board the
Southern Cross. He must not be allowed to interfere.”
“He shall not be, sir.”
“Miss Byrd sent this dispatch to the Gazette by wireless last night.
Mr. Loren will give you a copy of it. From the position of the vessel
at that time, you can calculate where she will be tonight. Probably you
can locate her by wireless. Do you understand?”
“Fully, sir.”
“Then consult with Mr. Loren and Mr. Metson, and go. Lose no time.”