“Well, what have you to tell me?” he demanded in the silky, smooth tones that had irritated Lawrence.
“Nothing,” said Brown. “Won’t you have a drink?”
“Not yet, thank you,” answered Smith politely. “Afterwards, perhaps. Where do you get this?”
“Downstairs,” said Brown, who seemed to be the spokesman.
“Well, I have news and plenty of it,” said Smith. “Not much longer will we have to eat our hearts out here. In an hour, two hours, I shall give you the best of news. Yes, indeed!” He nodded. “But first there is something for you to do, you over there, and you, Brown. I will sit here, perhaps comforting myself with this friendly bottle, while you take a taxi and bring O’Brien here.”
“Bring O’Brien?” cried Brown.
The fedora nodded.
“Just that!”
“Why, he won’t come! Where is he?” asked Brown.
“Either at the Ridgeway place or his own apartment. Oh, I have it all clear now, and O’Brien is in the thick of it. He is what you call the solution. He knows all. He is going to be made to tell. Won’t come? Of course he will come! That is what you are for, Brown. A messenger from the White House gave him a letter tonight. Go and bring him here.”