"Then I hazard the guess that you'll accompany me down-stairs to the door.
Calling a guard would be mutually embarrassing."
"It sure would," asserted Stewart, agreeing still.
"Then--" The general crooked a polite arm and offered it.
"But your guess was too much of a hazard! You don't win!"
However, Morrison turned on his heel and ran toward the private door. He
appeared to be solving all difficulties by flight. It was plain that those
in the room supposed so; their tension relaxed; the mayor of Marion was
manifestly avoiding the ignominy of ejection from the Capitol by the
militia--and that would be a fine piece of news to be bruited on the
streets next day, if he had remained to force that issue!
Stewart flung open the door. But instead of stepping through he stepped
back. "Come in," he called.
Paymaster Andrew Mac Tavish led the way, plodding stolidly, his neck
particularly rigid. Delora Bunker, stenographer at St. Ronan's mill,
followed. Last came Patrolman Rellihan, his bulk nigh filling the door,
his helmeted head almost scraping the lintel. He carried a night-stick
that resembled a flail-handle rather than the usual locust club. Morrison
slammed the door and Rellihan put his back against it.
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