opinion. We had long been friends; associated in innumerable
cases, and I wished to suggest the difficulty rather than to
express it. It was the twilight of an early Washington winter.
The lights in the great library, softened with delicate shades,
had been turned on. Outside, Sheridan Circle was almost a thing
of beauty in its vague outlines; even the squat, ridiculous
bronze horse had a certain dignity in the blue shadow.

If one had been speculating on the man, from his physical aspect
one would have taken Walker for an engineer of some sort, rather
than the head of the United States Secret Service. His lean face
and his angular manner gaffe that impression. Even now,
motionless in the big chair beyond the table, he seemed - how
shall I say it? - mechanical.

And that was the very defect in his memoir. He had cut the great
cases into a dry recital. There was no longer in them any
pressure of a human impulse. The glow of inspired detail had
been dissected out. Everything startling and wonderful had been
devitalized.

The memoir was a report.

The bulky typewritten manuscript lay on the table beside the
electric lamp, and I stood about uncertain how to tell him.

"Walker," I said, "did nothing wonderful ever happen to you in
the adventure of these cases?"

"What precisely do you mean, Sir Henry?" he replied.