"I am Senator Corson's daughter!"
She received no reply.
"I tell you I am Senator Corson's daughter! I want to come in. My father is there!"
She was answered by a different voice; she recognized it. It was the unmistakable drawl and nasal twang of Perley Wyman. Her girlhood memories of Perley's voice had been freshened very recently because he had been assigned to the Corson mansion by Thompson the florist as her chief aide in decorating for the reception. "Wal, I should say he was here—and then some! This was the door he came in through."
"Open it! Open it at once, Perley Wyman!"
"I dunno about that, Miss Corson! We've got orders about politicians and mobbers—"
"I'm neither. I command you to open this door."
"Who else is there?"
"I'm alone."
Soldier Wyman pulled the bolts and opened. "I ain't feeling like taking any more chances with the Corson family this evening," he admitted, with a grin that set his long jaw awry. "Your father nigh cuffed my head up to a peak when I tried to tell him what my orders were."