"Well, Doolittle?" he demanded.
"I just want to ask you, George——"
George exploded. "Oh, you just want to ask me! Well, everything you want to ask me is answered in that paper. Read it!"
Doolittle took the copy of the Sentinel which was thrust into his hands. George watched him with triumphant grimness, awaiting the effect of the bomb about to explode in the other's face. Mr. Doolittle unfolded the Sentinel—looked it slowly through—then raised his eyes to George. His face seemed somewhat puzzled, but otherwise it was overspread with that sympathetic concern which, as much as his hearse and his folding-chairs, was a part of his professional equipment.
"Why, George. I don't just get what you're driving at."
Forgetting that he was holding several copies of the Sentinel, George dropped them all upon the floor and seized the paper from Mr. Doolittle. He glanced swiftly over the first page—and experienced the highest voltage shock of his young public career. Feverishly he skimmed the remaining pages. But of all that he had poured out in the office of the Sentinel, not one word was in print.
Automatically clutching the paper in a hand that fell to his side, he stared blankly at his campaign manager. Mr. Doolittle gazed back with his air of sympathetic concern, bewildered questioning in his eyes. And for a space, despite the increasing uproar down in the street, there was a most perfect silence in the inner office of Remington and Evans.
Before either of the two men could speak, the door was violently flung open and Martin Jaffry appeared. His clothing was disarranged, his manner agitated—in striking contrast to the dapper and composed appearance usual to that middle-aged little gentleman.
"George," he panted, "heard anything about Geneviève?"
"She's safe. Penny's got charge of her by this time."