“And so,” Noah went on, “you are a copyist in the Department of Justice.” This from her explanation and his notice of a stain of ink near her finger-nail, for this daughter was an untidy slut. “The Department of Justice!” repeated Noah. “And there is something consistent in your employment in such a field, since Justice is a woman—and blind.” This last quip under his breath. “I am a close friend with Judge Berrien, the Attorney General, who heads your department. The great tie to unite us is our love for Calhoun.”
“Are you a friend of the Vice-President?” asked the daughter, her interest a little kindled.
“Perhaps partisan would be the truer word,” replied Noah. “I trust a good day will come when we are to drop the 'Vice' to his title and find him at home in the White House. And you, I suppose, meet many of Calhoun's adherents in your Department of Justice?”
“Numbers, indeed,” assented the daughter, while the mother bent an intent ear, trying to discover the drift.
By this time I could well make out how neither of these women was of vigorous intelligence. A malignant spirit, and a ripe aptness for evil to others. I could read in their vinegar faces and the fault-finding gather to their brows; but no power of thought, nor yet much cunning. I leaned back now, inquisitive as to Noah's methods and to note their results.
Noah led the talk up and down the town. He made it cover several years, for the Cravens were not newcomers in the place. At last he considered the navy and mentioned Timberlake. Had the young lady known the handsome purser Timberlake? The young lady had known the handsome purser Timberlake. A forbidding scowl contorted her features as she said this.
“Oh, I beg a thousand pardons!” cried Noah. He had caught the scowl. “I fear the mention of the handsome Timberlake is not agreeable. But he cut his throat, and there's the proper villain end of him.”
The butt-end cruelty of Noah's manner I was sure possessed a purpose, for commonly he was one of your most guarded of folk. While I had this in thought, it did not lessen my dismay when the daughter fell to weeping with her face in her hands, and all in frantic kind. Sobbing, she left the room.
“An affair of the heart?” cooed Noah, sympathetically, to the mother, while the Reverend Campbell fidgeted visibly.
“Sir,” said the mother, loftily, “you touched her rudely. Mr. Timberlake was paying my daughter marked attentions, and ones not to be misunderstood, when he was stolen from her side and trapped to the altar by that wanton, Peg O'Neal.”