“Is this politics—exactly?” she asked quietly.
Upon Montrose Clark’s chubby facial contours appeared a heightened color. “No; by thunder! It is n’t. Will you sit here, young lady, and keep out of sight of pursuers until I can catch and fetch Selden Dana?”
Marcia had not long to wait. The Judge was retrieved from a circle of the elderly, harmless, but influential, with whom he had been discussing cures. The two men sat and drank more tea than was good for them, while Marcia made her argument and plea. Then said Selden Dana to Montrose Clark, smiling: “Let’s buy out The Guardian and turn it over to her to run.”
“We might do worse,” conceded the magnate.
“It is not to be bought,” said Marcia.
“Have you tried?” the lawyer flashed at her. “You have,” he answered himself, marking the response in her face. “Well, I am dashed!” He and Montrose Clark exchanged glances. “Business is business,” observed the lawyer with apparent irrelevance, but in the tone of one who strives to recall a wandering purpose.
“Quite so!” murmured Montrose Clark. “Quite so!” But there was a lack of conviction in his voice.
“Miss Ames,” said Dana, “I pride myself on being a judge of character. Sometimes I meet a problem that puzzles me. Why has n’t Jem Robson gone into uniform?”
“Do you think Mr. Robson is a slacker?” she shot back at him.
“Not if I read him right. That’s what puzzles me about his staying behind.”