And by the time he was through work for the day and back
in his room at the hotel, he had his result. He embodied it in this
letter to Naylor:
_Dear Mr. Naylor_:
I am in the employ of Mrs. Athelstone. How I managed it is a yarn
that will keep till I get back. [He meant until he could invent the
story which would reflect the most credit on his ingenuity, for
though he knew that the whole thing had been a piece of luck he had
no intention of cheapening himself with Naylor by owning as much.]
I had intended to return to Boston to-night, but I'm on the track of
real news, a lovely stink, something much bigger than the Sunday story.
There's a sporting parson, quite a swell, in the office here who's gone
on Mrs. A., and I'm inclined to hope she is on him. Anyway, the Doc.
left in a hurry after some sort of a row over a month ago, and hasn't
written a line to his wife since. She's as cool as a cucumber about it
and handed me a hot one right off the bat about poor old Doc.'s having
gone away for a rest _a few days ago_. I've drawn cards and am going
to sit in the game, unless you wire me to come home, for I smell a large,
fat, front-page exclusive, which will jar the sensitive slats of some of
our first families both here and in dear old London.