The Best Man. Grace Livingston Hill

      CHAPTER I

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      Cyril Gordon had been seated at his desk but ten minutes and was deep in the morning’s mail when there came an urgent message from his chief, summoning him to an immediate audience in the inner office.

      The chief had keen blue eyes and shaggy eyebrows. He never wasted words; yet those words when spoken had more weight than those of most other men in Washington.

      There was the briefest of good-morning gleams in his nod and glance, but he only said:

      “Gordon, can you take the Pennsylvania train for New York that leaves the station in thirty-two minutes?”

      The young man was used to abrupt questions from his chief, but he caught his breath, mentally surveying his day as it had been planned:

      “Why, sir, I suppose I could – if it is necessary ————” He hesitated.

      “It is necessary,” said the chief curtly, as if that settled the matter.

      “But – half an hour!” ejaculated Gordon in dismay. “I could hardly get to my rooms and back to the station. I don’t see how——— Isn’t there a train a little later?”

      “Later train won’t do. Call up your man on the phone. Tell him to pack your bag and meet you at the station in twenty minutes. You’ll need evening clothes. Can you depend on your man to get your things quickly without fail?”

      There was that in the tone of the chief that caused Gordon to make no further demur.

      “Sure!” he responded with his usual businesslike tone, as he strode to the phone. His daze was passing off. “Evening clothes?” he questioned curiously, as if he might not have heard aright.

      “Yes, evening clothes,” was the curt answer, “and everything you’ll need for daytime for a respectable gentleman of leisure – a tourist, you understand.”

      Gordon perceived that he was being given a mission of trust and importance, not unmixed with mystery perhaps. He was new in the Secret Service, and it had been his ambition to rise in his chief’s good graces. He rang the telephone bell furiously and called up the number of his own apartments, giving his man orders in a breezy, decisive tone that caused a look of satisfaction to settle about the fine wrinkles of the chief’s eyes.

      Gordon’s watch was out and he was telling his man on just what car he must leave the apartments for the station. The chief noted it was two cars ahead of what would have been necessary. His gray head gave an almost imperceptible nod of commendation, and his eyes showed that he was content with his selection of a man.

      “Now, sir,” said Gordon, as he hung up the receiver, “I’m ready for orders.”

      “Well, you are to go to New York, and take a cab for the Cosmopolis Hotel – your room there is already secured by wire. Your name is John Burnham. The name of the hotel and the number of your room are on this memorandum. You will find awaiting you an invitation to dine this evening with a Holman, who knows of you as an expert in code-reading. Our men met him on the train an hour ago and arranged that he should invite you. He didn’t know whom they represented, of course. He has already tried to phone you at the hotel about coming to dinner to-night. He knows you are expected there before evening. Here is a letter of introduction to him from a man he knows. Our men got that also. It is genuine, of course."

      “Last night a message of national importance, written in cipher, was stolen from one of our men before it had been read. This is now in the hands of Holman, who is hoping to have you decipher it for him and a few guests who will also be present at dinner. They wish to use it for their own purposes. Your commission is to get hold of the message and bring it to us as soon as possible. Another message of very different import, written upon the same kind of paper, is in this envelope, with a translation for you to use in case you have to substitute a message. You will have to use your own wits and judgment. The main thing is, get the paper, and get back with it, with as little delay as possible. Undoubtedly your life will be in danger should it be discovered that you have made off with it. Spare no care to protect yourself and the message, at all hazards. Remember, I said, and the message, young man! It means much to the country."

      “In this envelope is money – all you will probably need. Telegraph or phone to this address if you are in trouble. Draw on us for more, if necessary, also through this same address. Here is the code you can use in case you find it necessary to telegraph. Your ticket is already bought. I have sent Clarkson to the station for it, and he will meet you at the train. You can give him instructions in case you find you have forgotten anything. Take your mail with you, and telegraph back orders to your stenographer. I think that is all. Oh, yes, to-night, while you are at dinner, you will be called to the phone by one of our men. If you are in trouble, this may give you opportunity to get away, and put us wise. You will find a motor at the door now, waiting to take you to the station. If your man doesn’t get there with your things, take the train any way, and buy some more when you get to New York. Don’t turn aside from your commission for anything. Don’t let anything hinder you! Make it a matter of life and death! Good morning, and good luck!”

      The chief held out a big, hairy hand that was surprisingly warm and soft considering the