"I tell you
what it is, my dear, John Harrington is not such a bad Republican after
all, though he _is_ a Democrat. And it is my belief he could call
himself a Republican, and could profess to believe just the same things as
he does now, if he only took a little care."
CHAPTER XIII
A council of three men sat in certain rooms, in Conduit Street, London.
There was nothing whatever about the bachelor's front room overlooking the
thoroughfare to suggest secrecy, nor did any one of the three gentlemen
who sat in easy-chairs, with cigars in their mouths, in any way resemble a
conspirator. They were neither masked nor wrapped in cloaks, but wore the
ordinary garb of fashionably civilized life. For the sake of clearness and
convenience, they can be designated as X, Y, and Z. X was the president on
the present occasion, but the office was not held permanently, devolving
upon each of the three in succession at each successive meeting.
X was a man sixty years of age, clean-shaved, with smooth iron-gray hair
and bushy eyebrows, from beneath which shone a pair of preternaturally
bright blue eyes.
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