Peter went downstairs with a very serious look on his face. At the door, the keeper of it said: “There are six reporters in the strangers’ room, Mr. Stirling, who wish to see you.”
A man who had just come in said: “I’m sorry for you, Peter.”
Peter smiled quietly. “Tell them our wishes are not mutual.” Then he turned to the newcomer. “It’s all right,” he said, “so far as the party is concerned, Hummel. But I’m to foot the bill to do it.”
“The devil! You don’t mean—?”
Peter nodded his head.
“I’ll give twenty-five thousand to the fund,” said Hummel, gleefully. “See if I don’t.”
“Excuse me, Mr. Stirling,” said a man who had just come in.
“Certainly,” said Peter promptly, “But I must ask the same favor of you, as I am going down town at once.” Peter had the brutality to pass out of the front door instantly, leaving the reporter with a disappointed look on his face.
“If he only would have said something?” groaned the reporter to himself. “Anything that could be spun into a column. He needn’t have told me what he didn’t care to tell, yet he could have helped me to pay my month’s rent as easily as could be.”
As for Peter, he fell into a long stride, and his face nearly equalled his stride in length. After he reached his quarters he sat and smoked, with the same serious look. He did not look cross. He did not have the gloom in his face which had been so fixed an expression for the last month. But he looked as a man might look who knew he had but a few hours to live, yet to whom death had no terror.