This answer to Handy’s threats was punctuated by a flash from the governor’s eyes.
“And Gilman—” the governor continued.
“Yes, sir.”
“Wire that woman—what’s her name?”
“Barry?”
“Yes—Barry—wire her to come. I think I shall prefer to tell her myself.”
Handy dropped, heavy with exhaustion, into his chair. He tried to speak, but had trouble with his articulation. When he mastered his tongue, he could only blurt:
“Now you have done it, haven’t you?”
“Yes,” said the governor in gentle assent, “I have done it.” The sigh that ended this remark was one in which a heart-burdening care was dissipated. It was a sigh that resolved a vast difficulty.
When the woman came the next morning, Gilman led her at once into the governor’s presence. Before him lay a large document, lettered in preposterous script, lined in red ink. The woman knew this imitation parchment to be the pardon of Thomas Whalen. The governor rose and stood until she had seated herself, and then said, drawing the pardon on the desk to him, “I have decided to grant the application for Whalen’s pardon.”