In the midst of a story, which he carried without interruption, the
guest of honor perceived a sort of glaze settle over his chief's
immobile visage; the next moment he had very slightly shaken his head at
Ives. Banneker concluded his story. Marrineal capped it with another.
Ives, usually abstemious as befits one who practices sleight-of-hand and
brain, poured his empty goblet full of champagne and emptied it in long,
eager draughts. The dinner went on.
The ices were being cleared away when a newspaper man, not in evening
clothes, slipped in and talked for a moment with Mr. Gordon of The
Ledger. Presently another quietly appropriated a seat next to Van Cleve
of The Sphere. The tidings, whatever they were, spread. Then, the
important men of the different papers gathered about Russell Edmonds.
They seemed to be putting to him brief inquiries, to which he answered
with set face and confirming nods. With his quickened faculties,
Banneker surmised one of those inside secrets of journalism so often
sacredly kept, though a hundred men know them, of which the public reads
only the obvious facts, the empty shell. Now and again he caught a quick
and veiled glance of incomprehension of doubt, of incredulity, cast at
him.
He chattered on.
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