"With heart-felt congratulations on your great career,
"I am yours most respectfully,
"FRANK ALLEN."
Enoch drew a deep breath and took up his fountain pen. He signed with
a rapid, illegible scrawl that toward the end of the pile became a mere
hieroglyphic. Jonas put his black face in at the door just as he
finished the last.
"Coming, Jonas!" said the Secretary. "By the way, Abbott, I'll answer
that letter from Frank Allen the first thing in the morning. Good
night, old man! Rather a lighter day than yesterday, eh?"
"Yes, indeed, Mr. Secretary!" agreed Abbott, as Enoch picked up his hat
and went hastily out the door Jonas held open for him.
It was seven twenty when Enoch reached home. His house was small, with
a lawn about the size of a saucer in front, and a back yard entirely
monopolized by a tiny magnolia tree. Enoch rented the house furnished
and it was full of the home atmosphere created by the former diplomat's
wife from whom he leased it. Jonas was his steward and his valet.
While other servants came and went, Jonas was there forever. He
followed Enoch upstairs and turned on the bath water, then hurried to
lay out evening clothes. During the entire process of dressing the two
men did not exchange a word but Jonas heaved a sigh of satisfaction
when at ten minutes before eight he opened the hall door.
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