"You got my note?" he asked, taking the place she made for him on the tête-à-tête divan.
"Yes; a little while before dinner. It came just in time to let me send frightfully late 'regrets' to Mrs. Weatherford."
"I couldn't come sooner. I've had the Hathaway crowd on my hands all afternoon. There is something in the wind, and those fellows are scared stiff. They say that Evan's speech-making has stirred up the working men and the rank and file like a declaration of war with Mexico, and nobody can tell what is going to happen next Tuesday."
"Is that all?"
"No, not quite all. There is a mild panic on in at least three of the city wards over the disappearance of a fellow named Gryson, a sort of—er—wire-puller and all-around general-utility man. Some say he has been doing crooked work and had to disappear; others say that he has taken his pay for whatever job he was doing and has skipped out, leaving his journeymen strikers to hold the bag."
"Gryson," said the little lady, her eyes narrowing; "Gryson—the name is curiously familiar. He is what you call a ward-worker, isn't he?"
Gantry nodded. "Something of the sort, yes. Evan calls him one of the 'pie-eaters,' and away along early in the game they had a set-to in Evan's office and Evan fired him; told him if he ever came back he'd throw him out."
Again Mrs. Honoria's fine eyes became reflective.
"Richard," she said softly, "I'd give anything in the world if I could know that Evan still feels that way about Thomas Gryson."
"Then you know the plug-ugly, do you?" said Gantry.