“I think,” he said, “that everybody—myself included—and, with all respect, even yourself, sir,—and your honourable colleague,—and perhaps even his Excellency your President,—should be on perpetual guard over their minds, and the thoughts that range there, lest, surreptitiously, stealthily, some taint of Yezidee infection lodge there and take root—and spread—perhaps—throughout your new Republic.”
The Secretary of War grinned. “They say I’m something of a socialist already,” he chuckled. “Do you think your magic Yezidees are responsible?”
The President, troubled and pallid, gazed steadily at Recklow.
“Mine is a single-track mind,” he remarked as though to himself.
Recklow said nothing. It is one kind of mind, after all. However, single-track roads are now obsolete.
“A single-track mind,” repeated the President. “And—I should not like anything to happen to the switch. It would mean ditching—or a rusty siding at best.... Please do all that is possible to get those four Yezidees, Mr. Recklow.”
Recklow said calmly: “Our only hope is in this young girl, Tressa Norne, who is now Mrs. Cleves.”
“My conscience!” piped the Secretary of the Navy. “What would happen to us if these Yezidees should murder her?”
“God knows,” replied John Recklow, unsmiling.
“Why not put her aboard our new dreadnought?” suggested the Secretary, “and keep her cruising until you United States Secret Service fellows get the rest of these infernal Yezidees and clap ’em into jail?”