So that it
was one of the surprises of the evening when Strong entered quietly and
with perfect deportment took his place in the elevator and got out
again, eight floors up, with the mildness of a dove. At the door of the
apartment came the last brief but sharp action of the campaign.
"Recky," he said, taking Fairfax's shoulders in his great grasp, "no
mother could be t' me what you've been."
"I hope not," Rex responded promptly, but Strong was not to be
side-tracked.
"No mother 'n the world--not one--no sir!" he went on. His voice broke
with feeling. "I'll nev' forget it--nev'--don't ask me to," he insisted.
"Dear Recky--blessed old tomfool--I'm go'n kiss you good-night."
"You bet you're not," said Fairfax with emphasis. "Let go of me, you
idiot," and he tried to loosen the hands on his shoulders.
But one of the most powerful men in New York had him in his grip, and
Rex found himself suddenly folded in Billy's arms, while a chaste salute
was planted full on his mouth. As he emerged a second later, disgusted
and furious, from this tender embrace, the clang of the elevator twenty
feet away caught his ear and, turning, his eyes met the astonished gaze
of two young girls and their scornful, frowning father. At that moment
the door of the Strongs' apartment opened, there was a vision of the
elder Mr. Strong's distracted face, the yellow gleam of the last
telegram in his hands, and Rex fled.
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