It was at this conjuncture that Davis, the chief despatcher, came in on the way up to his room in the attic half-story above. Connolly appealed to him at once.
“If you’ll sit in here, just for a minute, Davis, while I go wash my hands?” he said, adding: “I’d ought to be kicked all the way downstairs!”
When Davis had taken the chair and Connolly had gone out, Tarbell whispered to the superintendent. Maxwell nodded, and made a sign to Sprague. When he had closed the door of the despatcher’s room behind himself and his guest, he explained:
“Tarbell says he is ready, and we may as well have it over with. Do you want to be present?”
“As a spectator, yes,” said the expert.
“All right; we’ll go to my office and wait for Archer.”
The waiting interval proved to be short. Maxwell had just thrown his roll-top desk open, and the Government man had planted his big bulk solidly in the half-shadowed window-seat, when the door opened and Connolly came in, his full-moon face a frightened blank and his hands still ink-blackened. Tarbell was only a step behind the despatcher, and the reporter from The Tribune office was at Tarbell’s heels. When the three were inside, Tarbell shut the door and put his back against it.
“Here’s your man, Mr. Maxwell,” he said briefly; and Sprague, who had started to his feet at the door opening, sat down again in the shadow and said nothing.
Maxwell pointed brusquely to a chair at the desk end. “Sit down, Dan,” he snapped. And then: “I suppose you know what you’re here for?”
Connolly fell into the chair as if the sharp command had been a blow.