SHACKWELL and the Governor sat over the evening embers. It was after
ten o'clock, and the servant had carried away the coffee and liqueurs,
leaving the two men to their cigars. Mornway had once more lapsed into
his arm-chair, and sat with out-stretched feet, gazing comfortably at
his friend.
Shackwell was a small dry man of fifty, with a face as sallow and
freckled as a winter pear, a limp mustache, and shrewd, melancholy eyes.
"I am glad you have given yourself a day's rest," he said, looking at
the Governor.
"Well, I don't know that I needed it. There's such exhilaration in
victory that I never felt fresher."
"Ah, but the fight's just beginning."
"I know--but I'm ready for it. You mean the campaign against Fleetwood.
I understand there is to be a big row. Well, he and I are used to rows."
Shackwell paused, surveying his cigar. "You knew the 'Spy' meant to
lead the attack?"
"Yes. I was offered a glimpse of the documents this afternoon."