“Good day, Mr. Tully. I thank you. And don't forget my offer.”
Mr. Merriwether bowed as the door closed on Mr. William Tully and then, walking like a man in a trance, returned to his private office. He rang the push-button marked No. 1, and when McWayne appeared turned a haggard face to his private secretary.
“McWayne, that reporter has a story of Tom's engagement, but he wouldn't tell me who the girl is.”
“I don't believe it!” cried McWayne, with a not very intelligent intention of comforting his chief. At times the male Irish mind works femininely.
“Neither do I—and yet I do. It confirms Dr. Frauenthal's diagnosis. I guess he knows his business, after all. Well, the story will not be published yet. He acted pretty decently.”
McWayne wondered how much it had cost the old man, but he said, “Didn't he intimate—”
“That reporter knows his business,” cut in E. H. Merriwether. “He ought to be a dramatist. Have you heard from your men?”
“Yes, sir. Tom has gone to Boston. Two of them are with him. He suspects nothing.”
“What else?”
“They will let me know by long distance if anything happens.”