“Did n’t happen to see him around The Record office before you went to press yesterday, did you?”
“Yes, I did.”
“Ay-ah. Thought he might ’a’ dropped in. He made a call on The Guardian too.”
“What for?”
“Dove-o’-peace mission. Wanted to make sure that nothing would get in about the ‘Star-Spangled’ business to stir up ill-feeling.”
There rose in Jeremy Robson’s mind the recollection of Farley’s assurance to Embree, “You can rely on us;” which he had not before connected with his slain masterpiece. Now he perceived with indignation that it had been slaughtered to save a German holiday, at the hands of the Honorable Martin Embree.
“He’s the one that put a crimp in my story, is he!”
“Not necessarily,” qualified The Guardian man. “Probably they would n’t have run it anyway. But he wanted to be sure. That’s Smiling Martin’s way. You don’t catch him missing many tricks.”
“What’s his interest?”
“Just to smooth things over and keep everything lovely. Rasping up the comfortable Dutchers would n’t do anybody any good, according to his figuring, and would only make things unpleasant.”