Miss Corson was not interested in the troubles of Guard Wyman. He was talking through a narrow crack; she set her hands against the door and pushed her way in. "Where is my father? What trouble is he in?"
"I reckon it can't be any kind of trouble but what he'll be capable of taking care of himself in it all right," opined the guard, fondling his cheek with the back of his hand. "But there ain't any trouble in here, Miss Corson. It's all serene as a canned sardine that was canned for the siege of Troy, as it said in the opery the High School Cadets put on that year you was in the—"
"There's a mob in front of the State House!"
"It'll stay there," stated Wyman, remaining as serene as the comestible he had mentioned. "The St. Ronan's Rifles can't be backed down by any mob. We have been ordered to shoot, and that kind of a gang in this city might as well learn its lesson to-night as any other night. It's getting time to do a lot of law-and-order shooting in this country."
The girl, harrowed by her apprehensions, was not in the mood to discuss affairs with this amateur belligerent. But his complacency in his bloodthirsty attitude was peculiarly exasperating in her case. He seemed to typify that unreasonable spirit of slaughter that disdained to employ the facilities of good sense first of all. This florist's clerk, whom she had last seen on a step-ladder with his mouth full of tacks, was talking of shooting down his fellow-civilians as if there were no other alternative.
"My father may be in danger in this State House, but I'm glad he is here. He is not condoning this! He is not allowing this shame! Who is the lunatic who is threatening my father and bringing disgrace on this state?" She remembered the Senator's assertion over the telephone and, in her eagerness for news, she was willing to start with the humble Soldier Wyman.
She realized suddenly that her spirit of fiery protest was provoking her into an argument that might seem rather ridiculous if somebody in real authority should overhear her talking to Wyman and his mate. The portico door opened into a remote corridor.
"The only lunatic, up to date, Miss Corson, has been a Canuck who had a knock-down and drag-out with a settee and—"
Lana was not finding Wyman's statement especially convincing in the way of establishing faith in his sanity. "I thank you for letting me in! I must find my father."
The interior of the Capitol building was familiar ground to her.