“G—good e—evening, Mr. Attorney General,” he stammered, much flustered. “I smashed my cuff link, and was hunting for the thing.” And he exhibited his unfastened cuff to the Attorney General’s amused gaze.
“I am sorry, Tillinghast,” said he. “Wilkins, see if you can help—”
“Oh, I have the link,” broke in Dick, tapping his pocket reassuringly.
“Then let us go into the office. I believe you wish to see me alone. Ah! Clark,” as his secretary came out of the drawing-room, “you need not wait any longer. Stay,” as Clark hastily put on his overcoat with Wilkins’ assistance, “please stop on your way down Connecticut Avenue and send this night letter for me. Good night, my boy.”
“Good night, sir; good night, Tillinghast,” and the door banged to behind his retreating form.
After they were seated in the closed room Dick gazed in shocked surprise at the Attorney General. Never had he seen a man alter so much in so short a time. His hair and mustache were white, deep lines had formed about his mouth and eyes, and the latter had a feverish light in them which worried Dick extremely. For a moment he was at a loss how to explain his errand, but the Attorney General solved the difficulty for him.
“Secretary Bowers in his note tells me that I can trust you absolutely, and that you have confidential news of importance for my ear alone. Is it in regard to my resignation?”
“Well, partly, sir. I was with the President and the Secretary when your letter was delivered. They both wish you to reconsider your decision.”
A shade of annoyance crossed Trevor’s face. “I am afraid that is impossible, Tillinghast. I am an ill man, as you can see. It is physically impossible for me to carry on my work at the Department of Justice.”
“Very true, sir. But could you not take a vacation only? That would set you up wonderfully.”