"Oh, I am all right—a little tired, that's all. I don't sleep well."
"It is worry over this thing."
Cortlandt smiled crookedly. "I am not the one to worry; I am not the one at the head. Surely you know what people say—that I am her office-boy?"
Garavel found it hard to laugh this off gracefully. "You are too modest," he said. "I admire the trait, but I also chance to know the wonderful things you have accomplished. If people say such things, it is because they do not know and are too small to understand your voluntary position. It is very fine of you to let your wife share your work, senor." But he shook his head as the door closed behind him, really doubting that Cortlandt would prove physically equal to the coming struggle.
It was about this time—perhaps two weeks after Kirk had replied to his father's letter—that Runnels called him in one day to ask:
"Do you know a man named Clifford?"
"No."
"He dropped in this morning, claiming to be a newspaper man from the States; wanted to know all about everything on the Canal and—the usual thing. He didn't talk like a writer, though. I thought you might know him; he asked about you."
"Me?" Kirk pricked up his ears.
"I gathered the impression he was trying to pump me." Runnels eyed his subordinate shrewdly. "I boosted you."