CHAPTER XLVI.GORDON’S LETTERS REACH THEIR MARK.
Ex-Senator William Deane Phelps smiled complacently as he stood before a glass in his dressing room.
He was a tall man, and the sixty years that had passed over his head had left him his rather slim and upright figure. His hair was white, but abundant, and on the whole, he had good reason to consider himself a handsome and well-preserved man.
“Is there anything else, sir?” his valet asked respectfully.
“No,” the ex-senator answered. “It’s probable that I shall be very late, so you need not wait up.”
“Thank you, sir. Shall I ring for your car?”
“No, no! A taxi will do.”
Possibly the ghost of a smile curved the lips of the valet, but if so, it was quickly gone. If his employer chose to keep his movements secret, that was his employer’s b
