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Nevertheless she would go and see Sybil, taking care, of course, to say
nothing about the article.
At the time Joe was walking up and down Beacon Street in the effort to
come to a decision, John Harrington found himself face to face with a very
much more formidable problem. He stood before the fire-place in his rooms
in Charles Street, with an extinguished cigar between his teeth, his face
paler than usual, and a look of uncertainty on his features that was oddly
out of keeping with his usual mood. He wore an ancient shooting coat, and
his feet were trust into a pair of dingy leather slippers; his hands were
in his pockets, and he was staring vacantly at the clock.
On the oak writing-table that filled the middle of the room lay an open
telegram. It was dated from Washington, and conveyed the simple
information that Senator Caleb Jenkins had died at five o'clock that
morning. It was signed by an abbreviation that meant nothing except to
John himself. The name of the senator was itself fictitious, and stood for
another which John knew.


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