Mercy!" he vociferated.

"Why does my wife appeal for mercy to you--a stranger--and in your own cipher! Miserable woman! What secret's here?
Either you are--" "Hush! some one's at the door!" admonished the secretary.
Mr.Packard turned quickly, and, smoothing his face rapidly, as such men must, started for the door.

Mrs.Packard, flinging her whole soul into a look, met the secretary's eyes for a moment and then let her head sink forward on her hands above those telltale matches, from whose arrangement she had reaped despair in place of hope.
Mr.Steele smiled again, his fine, false smile, but after her head had fallen; not before.

Indeed, he had vouchsafed no reply to her eloquent look.

It was as if it had met marble till her eyes were bidden; then-- But Nixon was in the open doorway and Nixon was speaking: "A telegram, your Honor." The old man spoke briskly, even a little crisply--perhaps he always did when he addressed the mayor.