“’Pears like Marse Dick am pas’ prayin’ fo’,” he muttered. Then, hearing Mrs. Brisbane’s frantic calls for him, he shouted: “Comin’, ole Miss, comin’.”
The street cars were blocked by the heavy fall of snow, so Dick had to walk from Georgetown to the Star Building, a distance of nearly two miles, consequently he was late. But after the first rush of work was over, he stole a moment to call up the White House, and asked the names of the night watchmen who were on duty in the Executive Offices on that fatal Wednesday.
“Wait a moment,” answered the White House central, “and I’ll find out. Hello—the men were Charlie Flynn and Tom Murray.”
“Much obliged,” called Dick, as he rang off. Luck was certainly with him at last. He had greatly feared that he would not get any information in regard to the mysterious telephone call without a great deal of difficulty and delay, for “mum” was the word with all the White House employés.
But Tom Murray had been General Long’s orderly during the campaign in Cuba, and, in fact, owed his present position to the General’s influence. Dick knew where he lived, as Tom had married Peggy Macallister’s maid, Betty; and once when Betty was ill with typhoid fever, Peggy had asked Dick to go with her to Tom’s modest home on Capitol Hill.
Dick hurriedly covered his first assignment, rushed back to the office in time to get his story in the afternoon paper, then tore out again and jumped aboard a Navy Yard car. Twenty minutes later he was beating a hasty tattoo on the Murrays’ front door. Tom himself admitted him.
“Why, Mr. Tillinghast, sir! I’m mighty glad to see you. Won’t you come in?”
Dick stepped into the tiny parlor. “I’ve just stopped by for a moment, Tom. Thought you’d like to know that General Long is in town.”
Tom fell back a step in his astonishment.
“Glory be,” he shouted. “Where is he stopping, sir. That is, if he cares to see me?”