Critically he noted what had been done in the flower gardens, approved and passed on. With a foot upon the first of the broad granite steps leading to the main entrance he paused, calling to a man whom he had seen through an open window.
"Bradford, come here," he commanded.
Bradford, tall, thin, immaculate, soft footed, came promptly, just the vague hint of a bow in his greeting.
"Good morning, Mr. Stanton," he said in a toneless voice. "It is good to be back, sir."
Stanton looked at him curiously.
"You are lying, Bradford, and we both know it," he returned shortly. "You'd a deal rather be in New York or even San Francisco. ... You have everything ready?"
The majordomo, while his arms hung at his sides, lifted two thin white hands, flexing the wrists so that his palms were for an instant horizontal. Stanton's quick eyes that missed so little caught the gesture. It was the Bradford way of expressing annoyance.
"Almost, sir," spoke the man evenly. "I should have arrived at least another day earlier, that is all. But much can be done in the two or three hours still remaining us. Would you like to step in and see what I have done?"
"Later, perhaps. I wouldn't count upon more than two hours and a half, Bradford."
"Thank you. I'm glad to know."
"What have you done with the newspaper men?"
Again Bradford's palms right-angled his pendant arms.
