The Gold and Glory was soon connected with Stilson’s branch-telephone and he was impatiently listening to Vandewater’s part of the conversation. Mayer seemed to be saying a great deal, and Vandewater’s questions indicated that it was an account of some unusual happening. After ten long minutes, Vandewater hung up the receiver and turned to Stilson.
“I—I—it is hard to tell you, Mr. Stilson,” he began with mock hesitation.
“No nonsense, please.” Stilson shook his head with angry impatience. “I must know every fact—every fact—and quickly.”
“Mayer says she sailed on the Fürst Bismarck to-day—that she’s—she’s taken a man named Courtleigh, an Englishman—a young fellow in the chorus. Mayer says she sent a note to the manager, explaining that she was going abroad for good, and that Courtleigh came smirking in and told the other part. He says Courtleigh is a cheap scoundrel, and that her note read as if she were not quite right in her head.”
“Yes—and what’s Mayer doing? Is he telling everybody? Is he going to use it as an advertisement for the house?”
Vandewater hesitated, then said: “He’s not giving it to the afternoon papers. He’s writing it up to send out to-night to the morning papers.”
“Um!” Stilson looked grim, savage. “Go up there, please, and do your best to have it suppressed.”
“Yes.” Vandewater was swelling with mystery and importance. “You may rely on me, Mr. Stilson. And I shall respect your confidence.”
“I assume that you are a gentleman,” Stilson said sarcastically. He had taken Vandewater into his confidence because he had no choice, and he had little hope of his being able to hold his tongue. “Thank you. Good day.”
As soon as he was alone he seated himself at the telephone and began calling up his friends or acquaintances in places of authority on the newspapers, morning and evening. Of each he made the same request—“If a story comes in about Marguerite Feronia, will you see that it’s put as mildly as possible, if you must print it?” And from each he got an assurance that the story would be “taken care of.” When he rose wearily after an hour of telephoning, he had done all that could be done to close the “avenues of publicity.” He locked the door of his office and flung himself down at his desk, and buried his face in his arms.