“Have learned all. Am returning ring. Margaret.”
Margaret! She, too, had turned against him. He remembered her outburst of anger at home, when he had discussed resigning from the Tribe. But how had she learned of his resignation? Who—? Ah! Robert had an intuition. Pinkney. Pinkney, of course. Pinkney, who had wanted Margaret all the time. Pinkney, who had induced him to join the Tribe and undertake the organization of the middle West. He could see it all. Pinkney, with his fresh, pink cheeks, bursting into the Forsythe home, with the announcement that Hamilton had turned traitor to the South, to one hundred per cent Americanism, to the Constitution, to the sanctity of the home, to the dozen other glittering formulae that masked the crude program of racial and religious persecution. Robert felt anger, anger against Margaret, but principally against Pinkney—and relief.
He handed the telegrams to McCall, one by one.
“You may use the first one,” he said.
“I wouldn’t let that worry you. They’ll probably send you a few notes of warning, with pictures of skulls and cross bones. There’s a story in The Times this morning about—” His eyes took in the second telegram.
“Why—why, old man, this is tough. Have you quarreled?”
Robert told him of Margaret’s fanatic enthusiasm for the Tribe, especially its mission of protecting the home. As he did so, he felt the blow to his pride. He was glad of it—yet to be jilted!
“Protecting the home, eh!” exploded McCall. “Why more than half the men drafted from the South had the clap. Oh, I beg your pardon, Ham. I forgot for a moment. Oh, well, we’re almost as bad here. Probably worse in Chicago. But at least we don’t go round posing as home protectors.”
“Oh, well,” said Robert, with a little shrug of the shoulders, “I don’t know. I don’t feel crushed, but it—”
His thoughts somehow jumped to Dorothy and his heart beat faster.