“Tubal will have the petitions in ten minutes,” she said. “How will we go about getting signatures?”
“I don’t think that matters,” he said, absently.
“What?”
“I—I beg your pardon.... Er—signatures. Of course. Signatures.”
“What ails you, Mr. Pell. Of course, signatures. We weren’t speaking of potatoes.”
His manner was strange, she thought. He seemed a trifle pale. Was he ill?... No, he said, he was not ill, he was afraid he had been a trifle absent-minded. Carmel eyed him sharply. The thing did not look like absent-mindedness to her.
He arose and went to the telephone. “Give me the station, please,” he said, and then waited. “Is this the station? This is the Free Press.... Yes.... No news? Um!... Just saw Mr. Fownes going past with a bag. Thought he might be going away. We like to print something when people go away.... Bought his ticket?... To the capital, eh?... Thank you.” He hung up the receiver, and there was a look of profound relief on his face. This was surprising to Carmel. Why he should be relieved by learning Fownes was on his way to the capital was beyond her comprehension.
“Miss Lee,” he said, “there will be no time to get signers to a petition.”
“Why?”
“Because you must start at once for the capital.”