A bell rang and the Senator started. Many callers, mostly reporters, had been turned away by Phillips already that day, but brother Ralph’s untimely visit had made the position peculiarly dangerous. Moreover, the valet’s protests had proved unavailing this time. The two heard his approaching footsteps.
Meiklejohn’s care-worn face turned almost green with fright, and even his hardier companion yielded to a sense of peril. He leaped up, moving catlike on his toes.
“Where does that door lead to?” he hissed, pointing.
“A bedroom. But I’ve given orders—”
“You dough-faced dub, don’t you see you create suspicion by refusing to meet people? And, listen! If this is a cop, bluff hard! I’ll shoot up the whole Bureau before they get me!”
He vanished, moving with a silence and celerity that were almost uncanny in so huge a man. Phillips knocked and thrust his head in. He looked scared yet profoundly relieved.
“Mr. Tower to see you, sir,” he said breathlessly.
“What?” shrieked the Senator in a shrill falsetto.
“Yes, sir. It’s Mr. Tower himself, sir.”
“H’lo, Bill!” came a familiar voice. “Here I am! No spook yet, thank goodness!”