Then upon Ralston's wearied brain flashed the picture of his meeting with Colonel Duer; the tawdry, tarnished environment of his search for the worthless Steadman; his arrival at "The Martin" at two in the morning; his open solicitation of a woman's acquaintance, and the consequent free fight in which, so far as the onlookers knew, he might have killed her companion; then, and most unpleasant of all, his flight, bearing away his victim with him. How could he explain that? Why, the thing must have been wired to every morning paper in the country. He could see the headlines:
ASSISTANT SECRETARY OF NAVY KILLS MAN
FIGHT AROSE OVER WOMAN IN RESTAURANT
A NEW SCANDAL FOR THE PRESIDENT TO HUSH UP
He shuddered at the thought of it. If he gave himself up and declared that he had struck in self-defense, how could he explain having dashed away with the woman in a hansom? Where had he gone? Why had he gone there? His lips were sealed. He could make no statement without publicly avowing the whole object of his night's work—the necessity for finding Steadman, and Steadman's relations with Ellen. He saw column after column of interviews with himself, real and imaginary. The most sacred passages of Ellen's life would be made public property, dressed up to suit the editor's fancy, and sold on the corner for a penny.
The possibility sickened him. There was nothing to be done but to resign and go away. In that way only could the Administration be relieved from a most embarrassing situation, and by no other means could Ellen be saved from the humiliation incident to a truthful explanation of the affair. Then, too, he must continue his search. He could not give it up now. He must find Steadman, even while a fugitive from justice himself. He would find him.
He opened his eyes. They were still following Sixth Avenue beneath the elevated tracks. It had grown brighter. Sullivan had lighted a cigar. Ralston found himself trembling with excitement. A sweat had broken out all over him. Across the way, on the opposite corner, he saw the lights of a telegraph office, and he raised the manhole and told the cabby to stop.
"What's up?" inquired Sullivan, removing his cigar.
"I've got to send a telegram," said Ralston unsteadily.
Sullivan looked at him with suspicion.
"You ain't givin' me the double cross, eh?"
"I give you my word I'm not," replied Ralston. "It's only a matter of private business."