The front door was open, and the blast of cold air dispersed all the
foolish fancies that had gathered in Stephen's brain. Beyond the
fountain and the gate he could see the broad road through the Square and
the dark majestic figure of Washington on horseback. The electric signs
were blazing on the roofs of the shops and hotels which had driven the
original dwelling houses out of the neighbouring streets.

Turning as he was descending the steps, the young man looked into the
Governor's face. "Are you sure that you read Julius Gershom correctly?"
he inquired.

For a minute--it could not have been longer--the Governor did not reply.
Was he surprised for once into open discomfiture, or was his nimble wit
engaged in framing a plausible answer? Within the house, where so much
was disappointing and incongruous, Stephen had not felt the lack of
harmony between Gideon Vetch and his surroundings; but against the fine
proportions and the serene stateliness of the exterior, the Governor's
figure appeared aggressively modern.

"Julius Gershom!" repeated Vetch. "Well, yes, I think I know my Julius.
May I ask if you do?" The ironical humour which flashed like a sharp
light over his countenance played with the idea.

"Not by choice." Stephen looked back laughing. There was one thing to be
said in the Governor's favour--he invited honesty and he knew how to
receive it. "But I read of him in the newspapers when I cannot avoid it.
He does some dirty work, doesn't he?"

Again the Governor paused before replying. There was a curious gravity