"Lora, get Mr. Blanchard of the Conawin Mills on the 'phone, that's the
girl!"
"Yes, Andy, I'm going to get down to the figures in my case! I hope
there's a balance in my favor--but we never can tell!"
He set his elbows on his desk and clutched his hands into the hair above
his temples. Mac Tavish tiptoed away. Morrison had apparently prostrated
himself in the fane of figures; in the case of Mac Tavish figures were
holy.
"Mr. Blanchard on the 'phone, Mr. Morrison," reported Miss Bunker.
Morrison put questions, quickly, emphatically, searchingly. He listened.
He hung up. "Memo., Miss Bunker." He was curt. His eyes were hard. One
observing his manner and hearing his tone would have realized that quarry
had broken cover and that Mr. Blanchard had not been able to confuse the
trail by dragging across it an anise-bag; in fact, Morrison had said so
over the telephone just before he hung up. "Get me Cooper of the Waverly,
Finitter of the Lorton Looms, Labarre of the Bleachery, Sprague of the
Bates." He named four of the great textile operators of the river. "One
after the other, as I finish with each!"
After he had finished with all, pondering while he waited between calls,
he strode to Mac Tavish and brought the old man around on his stool by a
clap on the shoulder.
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