"Splendid! I'll meet you in the south lobby. I'm sure to recognize you, Frank gave me such a good description of you. If there's any slip-up, have one of the bellboys page me."
"Thank you," she said. "I'll be there."
As I laid down the telephone, my pulse was racing and my throat was dry. How in God's name should I act with her?
Half-past five crawled around. I filled in some of the time by phoning the F.B.I. and telling Lamb's secretary I was registered at the Willard under the name of R. L. Grant. I phoned Bedford Hills and told Jimmie that I was in Washington and wanted her to join me at the Willard. She was a little slow about getting the R. L. Grant angle but allowed that she could register as Mrs. Grant or Mrs. John Doe if necessary and when was all this nonsense going to stop?
In spite of my assurance, I almost failed to recognize Dorothy. She looked younger, smarter and infinitely more self-possessed, and the tanned and muscular young man in uniform who accompanied her was obviously not animated by brotherly sentiments toward her.
"Mrs. Jacklin?" I asked. "I'm Tompkins. And—" I turned eloquently to her escort.
"Oh, this is Major Demarest," she said. "Thanks, Tony, for escorting me. I'll see you later?"
"Half-past sixish?" Demarest asked.
"Say seven," Dorothy told him. "I'll meet you here, by the desk."
So I was neatly bracketed. While Dorothy and I were talking, her escort would be waiting—impatiently. There was no chance of a prolonged operation. I must keep things moving.