He lit a cigar, sat bark and gazed out at the dim street where dimmer figures and vehicles moved forever by. It occurred to him that thus would a man sit and smoke and meditate who was moved by an overmastering love to enact a tremendous deed. But it was difficult to sustain the pose with his temples throbbing madly and a lump in his throat. His heart, too, was skipping beats, he thought. Surreptitiously he felt his left wrist. He beckoned the waiter; ordered paper and ink. The lump in his throat was suddenly almost a pain. He wrote-- “It was wrong of me, of course, Sue, dear. But I really must see you. Even though your hostile attitude makes it difficult to be myself. There is trouble impending. It concerns you vitally. If you will only hear me; meet me for half an hour after dinner, I know I can help you more than you dream. “I am not speaking for myself but for you. In all this dreadful trouble between us, there is little I can ask of you. Only this--give me half an hour. I will wait down-stairs for an answer. P. E. M.” He sent this up-stairs. Then followed it as far as the telephones, called up his old acquaintance, Markham, of _The Morning Continental_, and whispered darkly to him over the wire. As he ran down-stairs and dodged past the barber shop door, he became conscious that the dinner he had eaten felt now like a compact, insoluble ball in the region of his solar plexus. So he stopped at the bar and gulped a bicarbonate of soda while buying a highball for Hy Lowe whom he found confidentially informing the barkeeper of his raise from forty-five a week to sixty. Then he resumed his seat by the window in the corner room; tried to find amusement in the pages of _Le Sourire_; failed; watched the door with wild eyes, starting up whenever a waiter entered the room, only to sink back limply at each fresh disappointment. He wondered suddenly about Sumner Smith. What if he had followed the trail! This thought brought something like a chill. If he, Peter, an old newspaper man, were to be caught in the act of passing on an “exclusive” tip to friends on competing papers--violating the sacred basis of newspaper ethics! You couldn't tell about Smith. He rarely showed interest, never emotion, seldom even smiled. He would receive the news that Emperor William had declared himself King of All the Americas with that same impassive front. Peter looked at his watch. It was twenty-five minutes of seven. He had thought it at least eight. One thing was certain--he must get his bags out of that awful barber shop before it closed. Accordingly he had a messenger called to take them, over to the rooms. CHAPTER XXVIII--SUE DOES NOT SEND FOR PETER |THE familiar person of the Worm came in through the bar, stood in the doorway, looked about with quiet keen eyes--tall, carelessly dressed, sandy of hair but mild and reflective of countenance. The Worm's eyes rested on Peter. He came across the room.