He turned over several papers and took one up from among the rest.
"What regiments are your sons in?" he asked, looking down the columns.
Griffith put out his hand. "What is the name, Mr. Lincoln? Is he killed or——"
The President retained the paper and feigned to be looking for a name. "No, no, missing—according to one account. The other—the news in too meager yet to—it is confused. We can't be sure, and then this paper is several days old beside. I've seen nothing since—nothing at all of him. Here—Roy. Captain Roy Davenport of—"
"Roy is not a captain. That is his brother Beverly. Is Roy——"
"He was promoted on the field, just before he fell—or—— This paper——"
Griffith staggered toward the door.
"I must go home. Just before he fell! Poor Katherine! Poor Roy! I must go home. I must make haste. How long—— When did you say it was? When——?"
"Wait," said Mr. Lincoln. "Let me try for a message—for accurate news for you. Wait." He rang. "Send that message, instantly—to Shiloh—to the Colonel of the ——— Indiana Infantry, and bring me the reply. Be quick—quick as you can," he said; and the secretary hastened away.
Silence fell between them. Griffith's hand reached out toward the paper Mr. Lincoln had let fall, but the long angular arm reached it first, and as if not noticing the movement of Mr. Davenport, he deftly slid it toward the pile of other papers, and then suddenly flung all into a confused heap as he searched for some article on the table.