“Hello, Central, don’t cut me off—Burton, that you?”
“Yes. The President says he will see you at ten minutes of five, sharp.”
“Burton, you are a trump. By-by.”
Prompt to the minute, Dick appeared in the waiting room of the Executive Offices. Burton came to the door and beckoned to him.
“In with you,” he whispered. “I sincerely hope your news is of sufficient importance to excuse my sending you in ahead of two irate senators,” and he gave Dick’s broad shoulders an encouraging pat, as the door swung open to admit him to the private office.
Dick had been frequently thrown with the President, having been one of the reporters detailed to accompany him when he toured the country before his election, but he never entered his presence without feeling the force and personality of the great American, who, with unerring hand, was steering the Ship of State through such turbulent waters.
The President straightened his tall, wiry form as Dick advanced to greet him. His large dark eyes, set deep under shaggy eyebrows, gazed rather blankly at Dick for a moment, then lighted with recognition as they shook hands.
“How are you, Mr. Tillinghast? Sit down here.” The President pointed to a large arm chair close beside his desk, then he glanced at the clock. “Burton said you wished to see me alone about a matter of life and death.”
“Well, yes, Mr. President; I put it that way to attract Burton’s attention.” Then, seeing a frown gathering on the rugged, heavily lined face, he hastened to add: “I came to see you about the Trevor murder.”
There was no mistaking the President’s genuine start of surprise.