'No; politics. Just as bad, I suppose you think. Now, do you know where Crupper is?'
'The Boss of New York? I heard before I left that he was at Carlsbad for his health.'
'He was there,' said Fleming mysteriously; 'but now——'
The politician solemnly pointed downwards with his forefinger.
'What! Dead?' cried Jennie, the ominous motion of Fleming's finger naturally suggesting what all good people believed to be the arch-thief's ultimate destination.
'No,' said Fleming, laughing; 'he's in this hotel.'
'Oh!'
'Yes, and Senator Smollet, leader of the Conscientious Party, is here too, although you don't meet them in the halls as often as you do me. These good men supposed to be political opponents, are lying low and saying nothing.'
'I see. And they've had a conference.'
'Exactly. Now, it's like this.' Fleming pulled a sheet of paper towards him, and drew on it an oval. 'That's New York. We'll call it a pumpkin-pie, if you like, the material of which it is composed being typical of the heads of its conscientious citizens. Or a pigeon-pie, perhaps, for the New Yorker is made to be plucked. Well, look here.' Fleming drew from a point in the centre several radiating lines. 'That's what Crupper and Smollet are doing in London. They're dividing the pie between the two parties.'