“First I'd have to get my father's consent,” replied the youth. “I gave him my word that I'd not have anything to do with my uncle. That was five or six years ago, and he mayn't feel the same now.”
“Tell him it's an order from the boss,” smiled Alston.
VIII
Needless to say, Robbie Budd didn't like it a bit when his son brought him that proposition. Lanny couldn't tell the whole story, being under orders regarding the “Intelligence” aspect of it; he could only say that the peace experts wanted to talk with some Bolsheviks, to know what concessions they were willing to make. To the salesman of armaments it seemed an outrage that any government should be willing to do anything with such scoundrels but shoot them; however, Lanny pointed out that the Allied troops were clamoring to go home, and statesmanship required that some compromise should be worked out. So quickly was a youth of nineteen catching the official tone!
Robbie didn't smile, for he wished his son to take his duties seriously. “All right,” said he. “But I want you to know, I'll be damned unhappy if I see you getting mixed up with that blatherskite Jesse.”
“Don't worry,” answered Lanny. “This is a job, and I want to do it as capably as I can, and maybe it'll take me to the President.”
Beauty gave her brother's address, up on the Butte Montmartre, where painters and other irregular people lived. Beauty scented a mystery in her son's inquiry and it was cruel to have to put her off; but Lanny just said that one of the professors was interested in painting and might buy something. No use trusting any secrets to Madame Detaze, veuve!
Taking the address to his chief, Lanny said: “I've been thinking this matter over and it occurs to me that it may be awkward if I don't tell my uncle about the army people. If later they should jump on him — he'd be sure to think I'd been helping to trap him or something.”
“I've thought of that also,” replied the other. “I'm going with you to see him, and then I'll have a frank talk with Captain Stratton. If the Crillon is interested in the man, Intelligence will lay off, of course.”
The taxis were back from the war and were being driven about the streets of Paris by homicidal maniacs. Lanny and his chief were whirled down the Rue Montmartre, and Lanny pointed out the window of the restaurant through which Jaurès had been shot. Alston said that the French authorities might have been glad to have the help of that great orator now, while their workers were seething with discontent. The cab whirled round a corner and down a crooked street — another “cabbage patch,” with crowded old buildings. It was one of the rare days when the sun shone in January, and slatternly women were leaning out of windows, and swarms of children playing all but under the wheels of the taxi.