Hic Labor, Haec Quies, he saw written on the statue of a tall maiden, and though, in New York, quiet is to be had only in the infrequent cemeteries, deep down, yet with the rest of the inscription he had been engaged all day.
Gravely saluting the maiden, who was but partly false, he passed on to an apartment-house and to Dunwoodie's door, which was opened by Dunwoodie himself. In slippers and a tattered gown, he was Hogarthian.
"I thought it a messenger!" he bitterly exclaimed.
Jones smiled at him. "When a man of your eminence is not wrong, he is invariably right. I am a messenger."
In the voice of an ogre, Dunwoodie took it up. "What is the message, sir?"
Jones pointed at the ceiling. Involuntarily, Dunwoodie looked up and then angrily at the novelist.
"An order of release," the latter announced.
Dunwoodie glared. "I suppose, sir, I must let you in, but allow me to tell you——"
Urbanely Jones gestured. "Pray do not ask my permission, it is a privilege to listen to anything you may say."
Dunwoodie turned. Through a winding hall he led the way to a room in which a lane went from the threshold to a table. The lane was bordered with an underbush of newspapers, pamphlets, magazines. Behind the underbush was a forest of books. Beside the table were an armchair and a stool. From above, hung a light. Otherwise, save for cobwebs, the room was bare and very relaxing.