“Name it. I think likely I can meet it.”
“Give me your promise that you will give me an interview the next time I come to see you. It may be in a day or two or a week. I don't promise not to print the story, you understand, but it will give you time to—well, to see your son.”
E. H. Merriwether held out his hand and said: “I will see you any time you come. But let me say, as an older man, that if you should suffer any loss by not printing—”
“Oh no—I shall not suffer. I propose to print my story. I am simply deferring publication; but I thank you for the offer you were going to make. It shows more consideration and, therefore, far greater common sense than most men in your position habitually display before a reporter. I'll do even more—I'll give you a friendly tip.” He stopped talking and looked doubtfully at E. H. Merriwether.
“Thank you,” said Mr. Merriwether, with a remarkable mixture of gratitude, dignity, and anxiety. “I am listening.”
“Find out why he goes to 777 Fifth Avenue. There are some things a really intelligent father, poor or rich, should—” He caught himself.
“Please finish, my boy!” cried the great little man, almost entreatingly.
“There are just a few things”—the reporter was speaking very slowly and his voice was lowered—“which an intelligent father does not trust to others—not even to the most loyal confidential men—things that should be done by the father himself. The number is 777 Fifth Avenue!”
“I thank you, Mr.—”
“William Tully,” said the reporter.