Harrington was left staring curiously at the back of the hand which Lahleet had kissed, curiously, for there was a tiny globule upon it that sparkled and glistened. It was a tear—Lahleet's tear. A tear of a Shell Point Indian! The tear of the dull and slowwitted of all the world, crying to be protected somewhat from the too-shrewd and grasping. As Harrington caught the rainbow colors in that quivering globule, and sensed its significance, his soul hardened; he saw the path of duty clear and felt himself strong enough to walk in it.
He kissed the tear away, and for a time was thinking deeply of what it meant—this appalling discovery—and of what it might mean to him today, to his interests, his position, his love—to go stoutly in to John Boland and tell him what he had discovered. A good many possibilities, some of them highly disagreeable, passed in review through Henry Harrington's mind in that ten minutes which intervened before he arose and stepped across the hall into the immediate purlieus of executive power.
Obsequious clerks made way for him. An alert efficient secretary, after the briefest interval, led him to the unmarked door. How perfectly oiled! With what smooth precision did the machinery of Boland General operate! And he was now about to commit an act of sabotage upon it. He felt grim and resolute, yet somehow small and mean—also distressingly embarrassed, painfully embarrassed. The situation was excruciating.
The secretary opened the door. Mr. Boland swung around in his great chair and upon his fine strong features was a most benevolent radiance, as he cried:
