“The truth is, I begin to be sick of it,” said General Belch to the calm William Condor.

That placid gentleman replied that he saw no reason for apprehension.

“But he may let things out, you know,” said Belch.

“Yes, but is not our word as good as his,” was the assuring reply.

“Perhaps, perhaps,” said General Belch, dolefully.

But Belch and Condor were forgotten by the representative they had sent to Congress when he once snuffed the air of Washington.  There was something grateful to Abel Newt in the wide sphere and complicated relations of the political capital, of which the atmosphere was one of intrigue, and which was built over the mines and countermines of selfishness.  He hoodwinked all Belch’s spies, so that the Honorable Mr. Ele could never ascertain any thing about his colleague, until once when he discovered that the report upon the Grant was to be brought in within a day or two by the Committee, and that it would be recommended, upon which he hastened to Abel’s lodging.  He found him smoking as usual, with a decanter at hand.  It was past midnight, and the room was in the disorder of a bachelor’s sanctum.

Mr. Ele seated himself carelessly, so carelessly that Abel saw at once that he had come for some very particular purpose.  He offered his friend a tumbler and a cigar, and they talked nimbly of a thousand things.  Who had come, who had gone, and how superb Mrs. Delilah Jones was, who had suddenly appeared upon the scene, invested with mystery, and bringing a note to each of the colleagues from General Belch.

“Mrs. Delilah Jones,” said that gentleman, in a private note to Ele, “is our old friend, Kitty Dunham.  She appears in Washington as the widow of a captain in the navy, who died a few years since upon the Brazil station.  She can be of the greatest service to us; and you must have no secrets from each other about our dear friend, who shall be nameless.”

To Abel Newt, General Belch wrote:  “My dear Newt, the lady to whom I have given a letter to you is daughter of an old friend of my family.  She married Captain Jones of the navy, whom she lost some years since upon the Brazil station.  She has seen the world; has money; and comes to Washington to taste life, to enjoy herself—­to doff the sables, perhaps, who knows?  Be kind to her, and take care of your heart.  Don’t forget the Grant in the arms of Delilah!  Yours, Belch.”

Abel Newt, when he received this letter, looked over his books of reports and statistics.

“Captain Jones—­Brazil station,” he said, skeptically, to himself.  But he found no such name or event in the obituaries; and he was only the more amused by his friend Belch’s futile efforts at circumvention and control.

“My dear Belch,” he replied, after he had made his investigations, “I have your private note, but I have not yet encountered the superb Delilah; nor have I forgotten what you said to me about working ’em through their wives, and sisters, etc.  I shall not begin to forget it now, and I hope to make the Delilah useful in the campaign; for there are goslings here, more than you would believe.  Thank you for such an ally. You, at least, were not born to fail.  Yours, A. Newt.”