Rockwell grinned at the look on Merriam's face.
"A historic garment, sir," he declared. "The Boy Senator's crimson smoking jacket is a household word with most of the six million souls of this commonwealth of Illinois. Off with your tails, sir, and into it!"
"Hurry!" he cried, as Merriam hesitated. "The Mayor will be here any minute."
"Why didn't he come up in the elevator with us?" Merriam asked while changing.
"All because of me, sir," replied Rockwell, in excellent spirits. "The Mayor abhors me and all my works so sincerely that I feel I have not lived in vain.--Now, then, sit in that big chair before the fireplace. Here, light this cigar. I'll start the gas log going and bring in the tray with the siphon and glasses and rye that I saw in the other room.--Ah!"
The telephone had rung, and Merriam had leapt out of his chair.
"Answer it," said Rockwell.
Merriam stepped to the telephone, which was on the wall, laid down his cigar, gripped his nerve hard, and put the receiver to his ear:
"Hello!"
A deep voice, boomingly suave, replied: