His friends at Washington did not cultivate the art of obscurity in the words which they used, and it had been suggested to him in black and white that the murder of these two men, under the particular circumstances existing, was a matter concerning which he should speak very plainly indeed to certain August personages.

Mr.
Harvey, who was a born diplomatist, understood the difficulties of such a proceeding a good deal more than those who had propounded it.
There was a knock at the door, and a footman entered, ushering in a visitor.
"The young lady whom you were expecting, sir," he announced discreetly.
Mr.Harvey rose at once to his feet.
"My dear Penelope," he said, shaking hands with her, "this is charming of you." Penelope smiled.
"It seems quite like old times to feel myself at home here once more," she declared.
Mr.Harvey did not pursue the subject.

He was perfectly well aware that Penelope, who had been his first wife's greatest friend, had never altogether forgiven him for his somewhat brief period of mourning.

He drew an easy chair up to the side of his desk and placed a footstool for her.
"I should not have sent for you," he said, "but I am really and honestly in a dilemma.

Do you know that, apart from endless cables, Washington has favored me with one hundred and forty pages of foolscap all about the events of the week before last ?" Penelope shivered a little.
"Poor Dicky!" she murmured, looking away into the fire.