“Good morning to you, Mr. Paret,” he said suavely. We held a colloquy in undertones over the bar, eyed by the two or three customers who were present. Mr. Monahan disappeared, but presently returned to whisper: “Sure, he'll see you,” to lead the way through the swinging doors and up a dark stairway. I came suddenly on a room in the greatest disorder, its tables and chairs piled high with newspapers and letters, its windows streaked with soot. From an open door on its farther side issued a voice.
“Is that you, Mr. Paret? Come in here.”
It was little less than a command.
“Heard of you, Mr. Paret. Glad to know you. Sit down, won't you?”
The inner room was almost dark. I made out a bed in the corner, and propped up in the bed a man; but for the moment I was most aware of a pair of eyes that flared up when the man spoke, and died down again when he became silent. They reminded me of those insects which in my childhood days we called “lightning bugs.” Mr. Jason gave me a hand like a woman's. I expressed my pleasure at meeting him, and took a chair beside the bed.
“I believe you're a partner of Theodore Watling's now aren't you? Smart man, Watling.”
“He'll make a good senator,” I replied, accepting the opening.
“You think he'll get elected—do you?” Mr. Jason inquired.
I laughed.
“Well, there isn't much doubt about that, I imagine.”