conceding that diplomacy's innocent and mush-like surface might conceal springs of a terrible potency.
Though Solon's public mien for a week or more had been hint enough of his secret to those who knew him well, I was, possibly, the first to whom he confided it in words.
He sent for me one crisp October morning, and I rushed over to the Argus office, knowing that he must have matters of importance to communicate.
I found him pacing the little sanctum, scanning a still damp sheet of proof. His brow was furrowed, but the lines were those of conscious power. In the broken chair by the littered desk sat Billy Durgin, his eyes ablaze with the lust of the chase. As I pushed into the dingy little room Solon halted in his walk and, with a flourish that did not entirely lack the dramatic, he handed me the narrow strip of paper. The item was brief.
"Mrs. J. Rodney Potts, the estimable wife of Colonel J. Rodney Potts of this town, will arrive here from the East next Thursday to make her home among us."
I looked up, to find them eager for my comment.
"Is it true?" I asked.
"It is," said Solon. "I shall meet the lady on the arrival of the eleven-eight train next Thursday."
"Well—what of it?"
"We are now about to see 'what of it.' My trusty and fearless young lieutenant here"—he indicated Billy, who coughed in his hand and looked modestly
