The Prince of Spies (Hope and Glory #3) - Elizabeth Camden Page 0,46

everyone remain in the dining room until he gets here.”

“What’s up?” Princeton asked.

“I don’t know, but he’s been in a bad mood all day.”

Little Rollins snorted. “Maybe he’s been eating what we’ve been getting all week. That would put anyone in a bad mood.”

Luke wandered into the dining room and took his assigned seat. The plates had already been set on the table. Tonight it was chipped ham with a cherry glaze, corn bread, and green bean casserole. The poison could be anywhere, but his plate was almost certainly chemical-free. He’d simply been feeling too good this week to believe he was among the test subjects.

“I love ham,” Princeton said as he sat down.

“Want some of mine?” Little Rollins called from the other table. There was no need to answer. Everyone knew the rules and had been abiding by them.

Luke bowed his head in prayer. He used to endure a good bit of ribbing from some of the others who thought it hysterical that he prayed before a meal likely infused with poison. Luke had cheerfully pointed out that was all the more reason to pray.

Dr. Wiley’s heavy footsteps thumped into the room. Luke knew what was wrong the moment he spotted the issue of Modern Century in the doctor’s hand.

“Who here has been speaking to the press?” he demanded, holding the magazine up for everyone to see. “This is the second time in the past three months that an article about the hygienic table trials has appeared in this magazine. There is too much insight in this article for the reporter to have gleaned it from external observation. Someone on the inside is speaking with him.”

“What’s the name of the journalist?” Nicolo asked. “I’ll go pry the truth out of him.”

“It’s an anonymous article,” Dr. Wiley replied.

Luke broke off a section of corn bread and casually slathered it with butter. Looking back on events, it was a good thing Clyde Magruder had vandalized Modern Century’s Washington office. Luke had figured Clyde might strike again and decided to close the office rather than tolerate additional attacks. Now he quietly typed his articles at his family’s town house in Alexandria. He published occasional articles in journals all over the East Coast and kept his special affiliation with Modern Century quiet from the men in this house.

“Well?” Dr. Wiley pressed. “Are any of you going to own up to being responsible for this breach of confidentiality?”

Luke set down his butter knife. “What’s the problem with sharing news of the study with the public? The taxpayers are paying for the study. Don’t they have a right to know about it?”

“Too much ruckus,” Dr. Wiley pronounced. “Everyone remembers what happened the first week, with people lining up outside our door and clamoring for details. They were making celebrities out of you.”

“That’s the best part of the whole study,” Nicolo said. “The ladies at the Census Bureau still look at me with respect. For once in my life! Do you know how hard it is for a man as short as me to get that kind of admiration?”

There was plenty of laughter at Nicolo’s comment, and a little wind went out of Dr. Wiley. “I know it’s flattering, but this is a controlled scientific study. The men of the hygienic table trials are—”

“We’re the Poison Squad,” Princeton interrupted. “At least get our name right.”

Dr. Wiley bowed his head in concession. “I suppose you all have earned the right to name yourselves whatever you want. But you don’t have the right to tattle to the press. I intend to send a firmly worded letter to the editor of Modern Century and demand the name of his source. I will be sorely disappointed if it turns out to be one of you.”

Luke went back to his ham. The magazine’s editor wouldn’t give him away. Cornelius Newman was a living legend who had been fighting for causes since before the Civil War. He’d stood up to anarchist threats, rowdy labor unions, and the Ku Klux Klan. A firmly worded letter from Dr. Wiley wasn’t going to frighten him.

After dinner a bunch of the men planned to head out to a vaudeville show, but Luke had translation work to complete. His final revision of the Don Quixote manuscript was due to his editor at the end of the week. The project had taken longer than expected because during the long nights of February, he started losing heart. Anxiety about the book’s reception plagued him. Literary critics were going to