"Well, more trouble?" insolently drawled "Tiger" happy in the paling of the old man's face and the sudden look of apprehension there.
For all answer, Flint handed him the message. Waldron read:
Southern and Gulf States all seemingly cut off from every kind of communication this P.M. Can get no news. Is this according to your orders? If not, can you inform me probable cause? I ask instructions. "K."
Silence, a minute, then Waldron whistled, and began pulling at his thick lower lip, a sure sign of perturbation.
"By the Almighty, Flint" said he. "I—maybe I was wrong just now, to be so confoundedly touchy about—about what you said. This—certainly looks odd, doesn't it? It can't be a series of coincidences! There must be something back of it, all. But—but what? Rebellion is out of the question, now, and has been for a long time. Revolution? The way we're organized, the very idea's an absurdity! But, if not these, what?"
Flint stared at him with drug-contracted eyes.
"Yes, that's the question," he rapped out. "What can it mean? Ah, perhaps Slade can tell us," he added, as the secret-service man quietly entered through a private door at the rear of the office.
"Tell you what, gentlemen?" asked Slade, smirking and rubbing his hands.
"The meaning of that, and that, and that!" snapped old Flint, thrusting the telegrams at the newcomer.
"Hm!" grunted the secret-service man, as he glanced them over. "That's damned odd! But it's of no real moment. If—if there's really any trouble, any outbreak or what not, of course it can't amount to anything. All you have to do is order the President to call out the troops, and—"