“Who’s Dorothy Haldane? Any relation to Tom Haldane who was just ahead of us, the chap who went into the Physical Laboratory at Columbia and who’s doing private research now?”
“His sister. She is Barnard A. M., and his research assistant.”
“Regular bluestocking,” I remarked with some dislike, for the learned research woman never appealed to me.
“Oh, no,” said John. “Not at all. She is one of the prettiest, nicest girls I ever knew.”
“Any feeling about your remarks, John?” I said hopefully.
“Of course not,” he answered with some irritation. “There’ll never be any more feeling. Since Anna’s death there can’t be. I know you’ll like Dorothy, though. What do you want her radium for?”
“There’s just a chance that I may have a scoop, and if you’ll take me up there to-night I’ll let you in.”
“I’ll take you up there,” said John, “but you can have your scoop to yourself. For the last word of copy I ever write will be in print before we call.”
That afternoon came an unexpected Cabinet change. For hours I interviewed, and wrote, telephoned and telegraphed, reaching my room at half after eight, to find John just ready to leave without me. He had written the story of the man who was to stop all war, only to see it killed by more important news. His experience had been that of every man in the secretary’s office, a common fate in the crowding rush of newspaper life. I had never seen John more distrait than that night, and we walked up to the Hartnells’ in utter silence.