chairs of the
Senators from South Carolina with a set look in their depths.

The crowd turned with sudden stir to the door of the Senate Chamber.

"Look," Jennie cried, "that's Mrs. Clem Clay of Alabama--how pale and
beautiful she is! The Senator's going to make the speech of his life
to-day. She's scared--Ah, that dress, that dress--isn't it a dream? Did
you ever see such a piece of velvet--and--do look at that dear little
gold hand holding the skirt up just high enough to see the exquisite
lace on her petticoat--"

"Where's the golden hand--I don't see it?" Dick broke in skeptically.

"Don't you see the chain hanging from her waist?"

"Yes, I see that."

"Follow it with your eye and you'll see the hand. The Bayard sisters
introduced them from Paris, you know."

The boy had ceased to listen to Jennie's chatter. His eye had suddenly
rested on a group of three men seated in the diplomatic gallery--one
evidently of high official position by the deference paid him. The man
on the left of the official was young, handsome, slender, and pulled the
corners of his mustache with a slow lazy touch of his graceful hand. His
eyes were fixed on Jennie with a steady gaze. The Minister from
Sardinia, of the Court of Victor Emmanuel, sat on the right, bowing and
gesticulating with an enthusiasm out of all proportion to the importance
of the conversation.

Behind this group sat a fourth man who leaned forward occasionally and
whispered to the official. His face was in shadow and the only thing
Dick could see was the thick dark brown beard which covered his regular
features and a pair of piercing black eyes.

"For heaven's sake, Jennie," the boy cried at last, "who is that villain
in the Diplomatic gallery?"

"Where?"

"In the corner there on the right."

"Oh, that's the Sardinian Minister--King Victor Emmanuel's new drummer
of trade for Genoa. He's getting ahead of the French, too."

"No--no, I don't mean that little rat. I mean the big fellow with the
heavy jaw and a face like a rattlesnake. He's trying to charm you too."

Jennie laughed.

"Silly! That's the new Secretary of War, Joseph Holt."

"A scoundrel, if God ever made one--"

"Because he looks at me?"

"No--that shows his good taste. It's the way he looks at you and moves
his crooked mouth and the way he bends his big flat head forward."

"Rubbish--he's a loyal Southerner--and if we have to fight he'll be with
us."

"Yes--he--_will_!"

"Of course, he