correspondence and away again out into the Park. It was a
difficult matter, this. 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