The railroad attorney wheeled about in his chair and looked at me; looked around me, would better express it, with his indefinite, encompassing yet inclusive glance. I had riveted his attention. And from henceforth, I knew, I should enter into his calculations. He had made for me a compartment in his mind.
“His own idea!” he repeated.
“I merely suggested it,” I was putting in, when he cut me short.
“Aren't you the son of Matthew Paret?”
“Yes,” I said.
He gave me a queer glance, the significance of which I left untranslated. My excitement was too great to analyze what he meant by this mention of my father....
When we reached the sidewalk my chief gave me a few parting instructions.
“I need scarcely say, Hugh,” he added, “that your presence in the capital should not be advertised as connected with this—legislation. They will probably attribute it to us in the end, but if you're reasonably careful, they'll never be able to prove it. And there's no use in putting our cards on the table at the beginning.”
“No indeed, sir!” I agreed.
He took my hand and pressed it.