“Don't worry;” said Smith. “I had determined to support you; I could not imagine that you would be so blind to your own interests as not to meet me half-way; but a dozen telegrams will change the program—you'll go back to Marysville all right.”
McPherson had slipped from the room, and Ames abandoned his post and hurried in pursuit. He was just in time to see the secretary's long legs vanishing around a turn in the corridor. Keeping them in sight he descended to the office floor. McPherson was now speaking directly to the clerk.
“Will you go personally to Mr. Carveth's room and interrupt the conference there between him and Mr. Smith? Mr. Smith wishes particularly to catch the eleven-ten train.”
Ames retired to the check-room. As the clerk's footsteps died out in the hall overhead, he heard a chair dragged across the tessellated floor, and peering out from his place of hiding, he saw McPherson by the aid of this chair reach the office clock and resolutely turn the hands back twenty minutes. This accomplished, McPherson took himself into the open air. He raced down the road toward the telegraph office. Here Ames found him fifteen minutes later scribbling away at one corner of the operator's deal table. He glanced up as Ames entered the room.
“Oh, Mr. Ames,” he said, “look from the window and tell me when the coach from the hotel arrives.” Even as he spoke they heard the shriek of the engine's whistle. McPherson sighed softly. “I'm afraid Mr. Smith has missed his train,” he said. “And I think he was quite anxious to catch it.”
Twenty minutes slipped by and there was a hasty step upon the threshold, and James Cartwright Smith burst into the room.
“Here, rush these telegrams!” he roared, and tossed a dozen sheets of paper in front of the operator.
“The wire's busy, Mr. Smith,” said McPherson mildly, so mildly there was almost a touch of sadness in his tone.
The great man turned to the operator.
“Throw this stuff out of the window, or I will, and send those wires.”