showman’s voice shouted down all opposition. No normal personality could live near him. He was Harvey Bragg. He was “It.” He was the omnipresent potential Dictator of America.
Among the group of reporters hanging on Bragg’s words was one strange to the others; a newcomer representing New York’s smartest weekly. He was tall, taciturn, and slightly built. He had thick, untidy hair, greying over the temples, a stubbly black beard and moustache, and wore spectacles. His wide-brimmed black hat and caped coat spoke of Greenwich Village.
His deep-set eyes had missed nothing, and nobody, of importance in the room. He had made few notes. Now he was watching Bluebeard intently.
“Boys and girls!”—arms raised, Harvey Bragg gave his benediction to everyone present—”I know what you all want to hear. You want to hear what I’m going to say to Orwin Prescott at Carnegie Hall.”
He lowered his arms in acknowledgement of the excited buzz followed by silence which greeted this remark.
“I’m going to say just one thing. And this goes, boys”—he included with a sweeping gesture of his left hand the whole of the newspaper men present—”with you as well as with everybody else. I’m going to say just this: Our country, which we all love, is unhappy. We have seen hard times—but we’ve battled through. We’ve got sand. We’re not dead yet by a long shot. No, sir! But we’re alive to the dangers ahead. Are you peddling junk for the Abbot of Holy Thorn or are you selling goods of your own?”
Loud applause followed this, led by Dumas
“I’m not saying, folks, that Abbot Donegal’s stuff is all backfire. I’m saying that second-hand promises are bad debts. I want to hear of anything that Orwin Prescott has promised which Orwin Prescott has done.
Again he was interrupted by loud applause. . . .
“The man we’re all looking for is the man who does things. Very well. Seconds out! The fight starts! On my right:
Donegal—Prescott. On my left: Harvey Bragg! America for every man and every man for America!”
Cheers and a deafening clapping of hands rewarded the speaker. Harvey Bragg stood, arms upraised forensically, dominating that gathering excited by his crude oratory. At which moment, even as Sascha lights flashed and cameras clicked:
“A lady to see you, Mr. Bragg,” came a discreet whisper.
Harvey Bragg lowered his arms, reluctantly relinquishing that heroic pose, and glanced aside. His confidential secretary, Salvaletti, stood at his elbow. There was an interchange of glances. Reporters surged around them.
“Urgent?” Harvey Bragg whispered.
“Number 12.”
Bragg started, but recovered himself.
“Easy-looking?”
“A beauty.”
“Excuse me, folks!” Bragg cried, his tremendous voice audible above the excitement, “I’ll be right back in two minutes.”
Of those who actually overheard this whispered conversation, Lola Dumas was one. She bit her lip, turned, and crossed to a senator from the South who was no friend of Harvey Bragg’s. The other was the new reporter. He followed Lola Dumas and presently engaged her in conversation.
More wine was uncorked. Newspaper men always welcomed an assignment to the Dumas’ apartment. . . .
Rather more than five minutes had elapsed when Harvey Bragg came back. He was holding the hand of a very pretty young woman whose smart frock did justice to a perfect figure, and whose little French hat displayed mahogany curls to their best advantage.
“Folks!” he roared. “I want you all to know my new secretary.” His roving glances sought and found Lola Dumas: he smiled wickedly. “What this little girl doesn’t know about the political situation not even Harvey Bragg can tell her. . . .”
Although one calling might not have suspected the fact, the whole of the Regal Tower, most expensive and fashionable part of the Regal-Athenian Hotel, was held by police officers and federal agents. Those visitors who applied for accommodation in this section of the hotel were informed that it was full; those who had been in occupation had very courteously been moved elsewhere on the plea of urgent alterations.
From porters at the door in the courtyard to the clerks in the reception desk, the liftman and the bell-boys, there was no man whose uniform did not disguise a detective.
Elaborate precautions had been taken to ensure the privacy of incoming and outgoing telephone calls. No general headquarters ever had been more closely guarded. Armageddon was being waged, but few appreciated the fact. In the past Wellington had crushed Bonaparte’s ambition to control Europe, but the great Corsican fought at Waterloo with a blunted sword. Foch and his powerful allies had thrown back Marshal von Hindenburg and the finest military machine in history since the retreat from Moscow broke the Grand Army of Napoleon. But now Nayland Smith, backed by the govern ment of the United States, fought, not for the salvage of the Constitution, not for the peace of the country, but for the future of the world. And the opposing forces were commanded by a mad genius. . . .
Dressed in an old tweed suit, pipe clenched between his teeth, he paced up and down the sitting-room. His powers were all that a field-marshal could have demanded. His chief of staff, Mark Hepburn, was one such as he would have selected. But. . . .
Someone had unlocked the door of the apartment.
Fey appeared in the vestibule as if by magic, his right hand in his coat pocket. Nayland Smith stepped smartly to the left, taking up a position from which he could see the entrance. A tall, pale, bearded man came in, wearing a
