“The d——d old sneak!” he yelled—and then dashed off a curt note to the Secretary. Thorndyke promptly confiscated this note, and dictated another, which was, if anything, more affectionate in tone than the Secretary’s. Crane would wish, above all things, to oblige the Secretary, but was himself under the weather, and so forth, and so forth.
“But I played golf with him at seven o’clock this morning!” cried Crane, throwing down his pen.
“So much the better,” replied Thorndyke. “You are returning his own lie to him with interest. Go on—‘Possibly by to-morrow you may be well enough to comply with the wish of the committee, and come to the Capitol. In any event, before a formal request is made for your attendance, your convenience will be consulted with regard to the hours and the weather.’ And when you get him up here put him in the sweat-box and give him all that’s coming to him—that’s the way to get on with him.”
“I see,” said Crane, light breaking upon him, “and when you had the old fellow up here, and I thought you were so friendly and polite to him, you were just ‘sweating’ him.”
“That’s what I was doing. However, I reckon the present Secretary to be the ideal man for the place. He is highly ornamental, perfectly honest, and satisfied with the shadow of power. Occasionally he reaches out for something in the way of etiquette or attention, as in the present case, but when he doesn’t get it he subsides quietly. The State Department has been steadily losing power and prestige from the foundation of the government until now, when it is recognised as a mere clerical bureau and a useful social adjunct to the Administration. Do you think if Daniel Webster were alive to-day he would take the portfolio of State? He would see the Administration at the demnition bow-wows first. Mr. Blaine took it twice under compulsion, and was the most wretched and restless man on earth while he had it. Both times he was so much too big for the place that he became exceedingly dangerous, and had to be forced out each time to save the Administration from total wreck. The lesson has not been lost on succeeding Presidents, and there will be no more Blaines and Websters in the State Department. The trouble is, however, that foreign Chancelleries persist in taking the State Department seriously. They can’t take in that you, as chairman of the House Committee on Foreign Affairs, are of a good deal more consequence at present than the Secretary of State. You can send for him, but he can’t send for you. You can call for information from him and practically force him to give it to you, but he can’t make you tell the day of the week unless you want to.”
Crane, who had signed and sealed his note while Thorndyke was speaking, glowed with pleasure at the last words. But he returned to his grievance about none of the smart set taking any particular interest in what was going to happen on the morrow.
“The diplomatic people are taking the deepest interest in it,” replied Thorndyke, grimly, “and when this report is read to-morrow they will be up against a fierce proposition.” Thorndyke was not above using slang when in the company of men alone.
They fell to work again at some last details, and it was not far from midnight when they left the great white building on the hill. In spite of the engrossing matters which had employed them, both men had been haunted by the recollection of their conversation the night before, about Constance Maitland—but neither had spoken her name. Thorndyke said, as they came out on the deserted moonlit plaza:
“It’s a pity Mrs. Crane can’t be here to listen to you speak to-morrow.”
“Yes,” replied Crane, promptly. “But I have written her about it, and I shall send her a despatch as soon as I get through to-morrow. By the way, I sent Miss Maitland a ticket to the reserved gallery. I shall probably see her at the French Embassy, where I am going to take a look at the ball.”