“It's been badly managed,” he muttered; “there's no doubt of that. Hunt must be got out of the way. When Bascom and Botcher come, tell them I want to see them in my room, not in Number Seven.”
And with this impressive command, received with nods of understanding, Senator Whitredge advanced slowly towards Number Seven, knocked, and entered. Be it known that Mr. Flint, with characteristic caution, had not confided even to the senator that the Honourable Hilary had had a stroke.
“Ah, Vane,” he said, in his most affable tones, “how are you?”
The Honourable Hilary, who was looking over some papers, shot at him a glance from under his shaggy eyebrows.
“Came in here to find out—didn't you, Whitredge?” he replied.
“What?” said the senator, taken aback; and for once at a loss for words.
The Honourable Hilary rose and stood straighter than usual, and looked the senator in the eye.
“What's your diagnosis?” he asked. “Superannuated—unfit for duty—unable to cope with the situation ready to be superseded? Is that about it?”
To say that Senator Whitredge was startled and uncomfortable would be to put his case mildly. He had never before seen Mr. Vane in this mood.
“Ha-ha!” he laughed; “the years are coming over us a little, aren't they? But I guess it isn't quite time for the youngsters to step in yet.”