"Yes, I'll believe you then," said Gertrude.
"Then suppose I come again this afternoon," urged the man. "I'll have the memoranda of the figures with me."
"Very well. Come at three," answered Gertrude. "I will have the way clear by then."
And Vickery departed, well satisfied with his half-hour's work. But when he had gone, Gertrude sent for Mary Snow, and they had a long talk together.
At three, promptly as the clocks were chiming out the hour, Orlando Vickery presented himself, and was ushered into the Mayor's private office.
"Well, I'm here," he said. "We are alone, of course?" He walked over to a curtained doorway, and drew aside the draperies. The stenographer's office was disclosed—empty. He remembered having seen her in the outer office as he came through.
"Pardon me," he apologized. "I just wanted to make sure—for your own sake, of course. For while these little arrangements are always being made, we prefer to have no witnesses, you know. Again, pardon me, but where does that door lead to?" He pointed towards the corner, just behind the desk.
"Only into a private closet," answered Gertrude. "You can look in if you insist upon it." But she quaked a little inwardly as she said it.
"O, no," answered Vickery. "I thought it might lead into one of the other offices. We don't want to be disturbed. Now, for business. Here's my private memorandum. Look it over. Anything you can't understand, just ask me."
Gertrude took the book—a small leather-covered memorandum—and began turning its leaves. But somehow she seemed dull of comprehension.