Now, to the Emily Burton type of woman-kind, the marring of a plot is only less precious than the making of one. The little lady had never been known to think deeply, but a grain of swift wit is sometimes worth an infinity of tardy logic. Whatever intervened, the conclusion was clear and definite; Brockway's chance must be rescued at all hazards--and there were only two minutes in which to do it.
She scanned the throng on the platform eagerly, hoping to catch sight of him, but the faces were all strange save one. That was the face of the President's private secretary; and, without a moment's hesitation, she beckoned him.
Quatremain saw the signal, and made his way to her window, taking care to keep as many human screens as possible between himself and the group at the car steps.
"Mrs. Burton, I believe," he said, lifting his hat.
"Yes"--hurriedly. "Do you know Mr. Brockway?"
"Yes; he's over in the telegraph office."
"Will you take him a message from me, quickly?"
"Then tell him I say he is going to be lost if he doesn't catch this train; he'll understand. And _please_ hurry--there isn't a second to spare!"
Quatremain nodded, and vanished in the crowd. He understood nothing of what was toward, but he suspected that what he was about to do would somehow interfere with the President's plans, and that was sufficient to make him run when he was well out of sight. He found Brockway in the telegraph office, writing a message, with the slope-shouldered gentleman at his elbow, and delivered Mrs. Burton's message _verbatim_ and shorn of any introduction whatsoever.
The effect on the passenger agent was surprising, if not explanatory. "Says I'm going to be--Not if I know it! I say, Tom"--flinging the pad of blanks at the operator, to call his attention--"wire anything--everything--this gentleman wants you to; I'm off!"
"But, Mr. ah--Brockway, I--I protest!" buzzed the gadfly, clutching at the passenger agent; but he was not quick enough, and when the protest was formulated, there was no one but the operator to listen to it.
The engine-bell was ringing and the train had begun to move when Brockway dashed out of the office, and the appreciative bystanders made way for him and cheered him as he sped away across the platform. It was neck-and-neck, and nothing to choose; but he was making it easily, when he collided squarely in mid career with the tall figure of the President. For a single passionate instant Mr. Francis Vennor forgot his traditions, and struck out savagely at the passenger agent. The blow caught Brockway full in the chest and made him gasp and stagger; but he gathered himself quickly, swerved aside, and ran on, catching the rear hand-rail of the last car as the train swept out of the station.