Tossing aside the photograph, Dorothy picked up the afternoon newspaper and was about to turn to the society page when she stopped, her attention arrested by a display heading:
BRUCE BRAINARD A SUICIDE
Kills Himself at Porter Homestead
The lines beneath were meager as to details, but Dorothy absorbed the printed words a dozen times before their whole meaning dawned upon her. At the end she drew a long, long breath. Bruce Brainard! His very name conjured up scenes she had prayed to forget; and now he was dead, a suicide. She raised her hands to her throbbing temples and burst into uncontrollable, hysterical laughter. Truly the Fates had a perverted sense of humor—to bring Bruce Brainard, Vera, and Hugh Wyndham together for a final meeting! Suddenly her laughter changed to tears, and noiseless sobs shook and racked her slender body until she sank back in her chair exhausted with emotion. She was regaining some hold on her customary composure when the insistent clamor of her desk telephone effectually aroused her.
“Hello! Yes,” she called into the instrument, steadying her voice. “Society editor, yes; no, we don’t take engagements over the ’phone— No, we can’t break the rule; sorry, but you will have to send it in signed, or bring the news in person. Good-by,” and she rang off.
Her right hand instinctively sought her assignment book; the telephone message had brought her back to the everyday routine; she could not permit her thoughts to wander afield; but first there was one thing she must do, and she again turned to the telephone. It was some minutes before she got the toll station, and there she met disappointment—the telephone at the Porter homestead had been temporarily disconnected; she could not talk to her sister.
But why had not Vera telephoned her? The question worried her as she turned the pages of her book, searching for the entries falling on that date. Then she recalled that, after her talk with the indignant Mr. Anson Smith that morning, she had covered her ears with the bedclothes and gone comfortably to sleep, letting the telephone ring itself out. The fact that she had been up all night “covering” the White House entertainment and had crawled into bed at twenty minutes past five in the morning did not, at the moment, seem an adequate excuse for having neglected the telephone—she had deliberately but unintentionally cut herself off from communication with Vera, and bitter tears came to her eyes at the thought. Vera might be needing her at that very moment! The thought was not quieting, and she had reached for her hat when again the telephone broke the silence.
“What is it?” she demanded, and her voice sounded shrill even in her own ears.
“Society editor,” came a woman’s voice over the wire. “Please look in the Congressional Directory and tell me if Mr. John Graham is still a representative.”
“What state is he from?” questioned Dorothy.