“Yes, he always smashes ‘em”
“How does he smash them, dear?” Moya asked, glancing up at the earnest face of Mark Hepburn.
According to the boy’s graphic description, this notable madman hurled them down on to the dome below, where they were shattered into fragments.
Hepburn, conquered again by the picture of the charming mother kneeling with one arm round Robbie’s shoulders, stooped and succumbed to the temptation of once again ruffling the boy’s curly head.
“You seem to have quite a lot of fun up here, Robbie!” he said.
Later, in the cosy sitting-room delicately feminine in its every appointment, Mark Hepburn sat looking at Moya Adair. She smiled almost timidly.
“I suppose,” she said, “it’s hard for you to understand, but——”
The door opened, and a curly head was thrust into the room, followed by a grin.
“Don’t go, Uncle Mark,” Robbie cried, “till I say good-bye.”
He disappeared. Mark Hepburn, watching Moya as with mock severity she signalled the boy to run away, wondered if there was anything more beautiful in nature than a young and lovely mother.
“I am glad,” he said, and his monotonous voice in some queer way sounded different, “that you have this great interest in your life.”
“My only interest,” she replied simply. “I go on for him. Otherwise”—she shook her head—”I should not be here now.”
“Still I don’t understand why you serve this man you call the President.”
“Yet the explanation is very simple. Although the guards are not visible, both entrances to this building are watched night and day. Whenever Robbie goes out with his nurse he is covered until they return. He is never allowed to walk on the streets, but is driven to the garden of a house on Long Island. That is his only playground except the one on the roof outside.”
“I suppose I am dense,” said Mark Hepbum, “but I don’t understand!”
“This apartment belongs to the President, although he rarely visits it. Mary Goff is my own servant; she has been in my service since the boy was born. Otherwise—I have no one. For two months Robbie disappeared ——”
“He was kidnapped?”
“Yes, he was kidnapped. That was before all this began. Then the President sent for me. I was naturally distracted; I think I should very soon have died. He made me an offer which, I think, any mother would have accepted. I accepted without hesitation. I am allowed to come here, even to bring friends, while I carry out the duties allotted to me. If I failed”—she bit her lip—”I should never see Robbie again.”
“But after all,” Mark Hepburn exclaimed hotly, “there’s a law in the land!”
“You don’t know the President.” Moya replied.
Mark Hepburn watched her silently for a while, and then:
“No,” he replied; “but it’s a very unpleasant situation. I have exposed you to a dreadful danger. . . . You mean”—he hesitated—”that my visit here to-day will be reported to the President?”
“Certainly, but Robbie is allowed visitors if they are old friends. You seem to know enough of my history to pass for an old friend, I think?”
“Yes,” said Mark Hepburn; “you may regard me as an old friend. . . .”
VI
In the room where the Memory Man worked patiently upon his stange piece of modelling, a distant bell rang and the amber light went out.
“Give me the latest report,” came the hated, dominating voice, “of the Number in charge of party covering Base 3.”
“A report to hand,” came an immediate reply in those terse Teutonic tones, “timed 5.15. Police have been further reinforced. Chinese approaching the areas one, two and three have been interrogated. Government agent in charge not yet identified. Several detectives and federal agents have been in Wu King’s Bar since noon. Report ends. From Number 41.”
Following a silent interval, during which, in the darkness, the Memory Man lighted a fresh Egyptian cigarette from the stump of the old one: “The latest report,” the voice directed, “from Number covering Eileen Breon.”
“Report to hand timed 4.35. A man, bearded, wearing glasses and driving coat with a fur collar, age estimated at thirty-five, arrived in her company at the apartment at 3.29. He remained for an hour; covered on leaving. He proceeded on foot to Grand Central. Operatives covering lost his track in the crowd. Report ends. This is from Number 39.”
“Most unsatisfactory. Give me the latest report from the Regal-Athenian.”
“Only one to hand, timed 5.10 p.m. Owing to long non-appearances of Federal Agents Hepburn and Smith, Number suggests——”
“Suggestions are not reports,” the gutteral voice said harshly. “What’s this man’s number?”
Following a further brief silence:
“Make the connections, “ the harsh voice directed. “You are free for four hours.”
