At the very zenith of his heavenward flight Potts was brought low. At
the very nethermost point of his downward swoop Solon Denney was raised
to a height so dizzy that even the erstwhile sceptic spirit of Westley
Keyts abased itself before him, frankly conceding that diplomacy's
innocent and mush-like surface might conceal springs of a terrible
potency.
Though Solon's public mien for a week or more had been hint enough of
his secret to those who knew him well, I was, possibly, the first to
whom he confided it in words.
He sent for me one crisp October morning, and I rushed over to the
_Argus_ office, knowing that he must have matters of importance to
communicate.
I found him pacing the little sanctum, scanning a still damp sheet of
proof. His brow was furrowed, but the lines were those of conscious
power. In the broken chair by the littered desk sat Billy Durgin, his
eyes ablaze with the lust of the chase. As I pushed into the dingy
little room Solon halted in his walk and, with a flourish that did not
entirely lack the dramatic, he handed me the narrow strip of paper. The
item was brief.
"Mrs. J. Rodney Potts, the estimable wife of Colonel J. Rodney Potts of
this town, will arrive here from the East next Thursday to make her home
among us.
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