Needley awoke and came to life—as from the dead. There was bustle, activity, and suppressed and unsuppressed excitement on every hand—the Waldorf Hotel once more opened its doors—the Congress Hotel was already full.
The reporters interviewed everybody with but one exception—the Patriarch.
They interviewed Madison—and Madison talked to them gravely, quietly, a little self-deprecatingly, a little abashed at the thought of personal exploitage.
"I wouldn't be interviewed at all," he told them, "if it were not that mankind at large is entitled to every bit of evidence that can be obtained. Yes; I gave what I could afford, but it was Holmes, a poor man, who gave most of all—have you seen him? Myself? What does that matter? I am unknown, my personality, unlike Mr. Thornton's, can carry no weight. I am, I suppose, what you might call a rolling stone, a world wanderer. My parents left me a moderate fortune, and I have travelled pretty well and pretty constantly all over the world during the last twelve or fifteen years. How did I come to Needley? Well, you can call it luck, or something more than that, whichever way it appeals to you. I was feeling seedy, a little off-color, and I started down for a rest and lay-off in Maine. I happened to ask a man in Portland if he knew of a quiet place. He meant to be humorous, I imagine. He said Needley was the quietest place he knew of. I took him at his word."
