The man was not unkind. He was studying me with shrewd eyes,—I knew that,—but he was so physically big and solid, and so plainly a man of affairs in that rough, practical world that Crocker himself had inhabited, that I found myself leaning on him. He could help. And, as I returned his quiet gaze, I knew that I could trust him. I realized, all at once, that the code has its good side as well as its bad.
“Has there got to be publicity?” I asked.
He squinted his eyes, took a thoughtful pull at his cigar, and nodded. “Rather,” he replied. “Everybody knows the Crocker family. And this fellow himself has been on the front page now and then. Publicity? Good God, man, stop and think a minute! He's dead. And death is one thing you can't hush up so easily. I know our newspaper boys—and I know that.... Look here, suppose I take hold with you. Glad to do what I can.”
I nodded at this, and said—“I wish you would.”
“All right. But tell me first, is Mrs. Crocker all right? The correspondents are sure to get at her, you know. Can she meet them, and keep cool?”
“Yes,” said I, “she can do that.”
His gaze lingered a moment on my face.
“I thought so,” he replied. “She looks like the right kind.”
For a little time he sat back in his chair, smoking and meditating. Then he said:
“I'll get the Consul-General on the wire and ask him to come over himself. We'll have to tell him everything, but I think we can satisfy him—I can bear witness that he was drunk and making threats. So can you. The little Frenchman from the other hotel must have seen the thing. He sputtered around like a crazy man.”