"Is that final, Governor?"
"Quite final."
"Well, good evening, then."
IV
SHACKWELL and the Governor sat over the evening embers. It was after
ten o'clock, and the servant had carried away the coffee and
liqueurs, leaving the two men to their cigars. Mornway had once more
lapsed into his arm-chair, and sat with out-stretched feet, gazing
comfortably at his friend.
Shackwell was a small dry man of fifty, with a face as sallow and
freckled as a winter pear, a limp mustache, and shrewd, melancholy
eyes.
"I am glad you have given yourself a day's rest," he said, looking
at the Governor.
"Well, I don't know that I needed it. There's such exhilaration in
victory that I never felt fresher."
"Ah, but the fight's just beginning."
"I know--but I'm ready for it. You mean the campaign against
Fleetwood. I understand there is to be a big row. Well, he and I are
used to rows."
Shackwell paused, surveying his cigar. "You knew the 'Spy' meant to
lead the attack?"
"Yes.
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