Jamie felt hurt.
“But no one sent me, Mr. Meredith,” he said; “I just came.”
“And how did you know I was here?”
“I guessed.”
Mr. Meredith was thoughtful for an instant and then said:
“But why did you come?”
Jamie blushed.
“I—I—I—now—” he stammered. “I don’t like to tell.” And he hid his face against Mr. Meredith’s sleeve.
The carriage stopped, the driver leaped from his box and flung open the door. Mr. Meredith sprang out, leaped up the stone steps, ran down the corridors, dashed into the elevator and was shot up to the third floor. Jamie had been compelled to run faster than he ever did in his life to keep up with him. He was nearly pinched by the iron door of the elevator as the man slid it shut.
But he was close at Mr. Meredith’s heels when he ran into the house. The few senators, having just concluded a perfunctory Monday afternoon session over in their more or less solemn chamber, were bustling into the hall of the house, evidently expecting something of interest to occur. They pressed by the doorkeeper, and as they entered Jamie heard the speaker cry: