Now Dicky dwelt reverently upon the old man’s secret. Only one thing could have prevented John Higgins from getting his masterpiece into print; also John Higgins had made out his single possession in the world to Pidge—when he thought he was done for. This thought now electrified Richard Cobden. He wanted events to turn out this way with such one-pointed fury that he forgot for an instant that it entailed the death of his friend. But some time Pidge must have this gift—some way—John Higgins’ life work! Dicky arose. The fact that he could do nothing right now required extraordinary self-control.
“I’ll look the whole property over to-day and tell you to-morrow morning, John. Be sure it will be all right for you. We’re——”
Dicky didn’t know what he had started to say. The old man beckoned him back.
“... Bert Ames can help you for a few days until she comes back. No better Washington man, anywhere, but Bert knows the desk work, too.... Wait. I’ve got to tell you before you go how he dropped in to see me, day or two after he came back from France. I asked him if he’d seen you. He rather allowed he had—and launched into the story of your saving young Melton from the clutches of the French family. Couldn’t stop him in time. He hadn’t the slightest notion that the woman at the desk yonder was Mrs. Melton.”
Dicky was pale.
“It didn’t knock her out. That’s the queer part,” John Higgins added. “... Get Bert Ames. There’s one man who isn’t doing any damage to you as he loafs around New York.”
“I’ll be back to-morrow morning,” Dicky said. “Where’s Melton now—Los Angeles?”
“No, here in New York. I’ve heard he’s stopping at the Vici Club.”
XXXVIII
AN OFFICE OF THE WORLD
DICKY was in the street and it was still only ten in the morning. The first thing he did then was to telegraph Pidge of his arrival; that all was well, and for her not to hurry. He spent the day at The Public Square offices studying the books, reading up in the files. He fancied that he found an aggressive sort of integrity here and there through the systems, that was familiar. The publishing property had weathered the war; it was a building base. Dicky found much that he liked, but fought enthusiasm—fought back a rush of possessive impulses, until he was tired.