Vanulm dropped into the chair next to Carrington's, reaching for a match as he did so. "Well, Mr. Journalist," he said, "and what's the news today?"
Carrington sighed. Following the campaign through the hot weather was no easy task. "The news to-day," he echoed. "Why, for me the same as it was yesterday, and the same as it will be tomorrow. State politics, morning, noon and night. I've just come from an interview with an old friend of yours."
"Gordon?" queried Vanulm.
Carrington smiled. "How'd you guess it?" he answered. "Yes, they told me to get a column and a half out of him on his chances of election. He says he's going to win."
The brewer paused a moment before lighting his cigar. "And is he?" he asked.
Carrington's brow wrinkled doubtfully. "Well," he replied at last, "I wouldn't want to be quoted, but between ourselves I really think he's got a good show. It would seem queer enough, too, to have a Democratic governor again after so many years. Nobody down-town thinks he's even got a show, and yet somehow away down in my heart I think he'll go in. How do you feel about it?"
Vanulm shook his head. "Why should he?" he answered. "The state's normally Republican, to begin with, of course, and always has been. Add to this that Endicott's a man of intelligence, and a man of great wealth; that he's essentially a corporation man, and supposed to be hand in glove with the Combine, and how's Gordon going to beat him? I dare say he'll make a creditable showing, but he won't win. I'm sure of that."
Carrington did not look convinced. "Well, you voice the general down-town opinion, of course," he answered, "but here's something that you don't realize. The strongest bond in the world is the bond of a common misfortune, and the strongest passion in the world is the passion for revenge; and when you come to instil that passion into men already united by that bond, why, something's going to drop. And that's been Gordon's game ever since the panic. He's got a tremendous following throughout the state, as far as the market goes, and men aren't Republicans or Democrats when they've been touched in their pocket-books. So you see the chance he's had. Day in and day out he's been preaching the same thing: that that Konahassett drive was a deliberate, cold-blooded steal from the stock-holders of an honest mining venture, that the whole thing was planned and carried through by the Combine, and that the only way to break up such practices and give the people a show is to place an honest man in the governor's chair. That man, he modestly admits, is himself. That's only his start, and it's a strong start, at that. You and I may laugh at the hackneyed 'People against the Corporations' cry, but it's as effective with the masses to-day as it ever was, perhaps even more so. And added to all that, Gordon's been a tireless and systematic worker. He's gone everywhere; he's sent out the greatest mass of literature you ever heard of; he's apparently had plenty of money to use—and, by the way, that's a queer thing. I understood he was busted when they made that raid on his mine, but he doesn't act so. I wonder where he gets his money. I guess we both know one place he doesn't get it from."
Vanulm laughed. "The Combine," he said. "Yes, that's right. I don't believe they've been very large subscribers to his campaign. They aren't worrying, though. I talked yesterday with a man very close to headquarters. He says they don't even take him seriously."
Carrington rose. "Well, I must get along," he said. "Buy a paper to-morrow, anyway, and read my write-up. And, though I'm not posing as a prophet, you may get a surprise on election day, too. Remember that."
Gordon's campaign for the nomination, fostered carefully for a year, had been one which had puzzled every one, most of all the politicians of the old "machine" school. Received at first with unbelief, then with derision, the announcement of his candidacy had never met with really serious consideration until about a week before the primaries. Then, indeed, disquieting rumors began to pour in from all over the state, and there was a general revival of interest at the headquarters of Logan, the machine candidate, who had so far branded Gordon as a "butter-in" and an "amachoor," and had further regarded as unnecessary the usual "distribution of campaign funds." Subsequent events proved the revival to have been started about a month late, and the nomination came to Gordon by a clear ten thousand plurality.
Even then, however, the Republicans had not seen fit to be alarmed, regarding the choice as reflecting on the judgment of their opponents rather than as putting their own candidate in serious danger. And now, with election day only three weeks away, the situation was practically unchanged; the Republicans serenely, even majestically, confident; Gordon's forces working day and night, for the most part under cover, with Gordon himself the only figure really in the limelight, but working with a silence and with a system that spoke well for the youthful manager of the campaign. Doyle's methods had been characteristic. For Gordon, ceaseless activity; the entire round of the state; speeches not too long, but clear and to the point, driving their lesson home to the humblest intellect in the crowds which flocked to hear him; the "glad hand" to all; the introduction of the much-abused "personal element" into all that was said or written concerning the candidate. For every one else connected with the campaign, the most praiseworthy shrinking from publicity; an almost morbid desire not to attract too much the attention of the public; as Doyle, in a phrase long remembered, had put the matter to his lieutenants assembled in full conclave: "Gordon's looking out for the theoretical part; and the rest of us are going to be practical, and pretty damned practical, too."
The day on which Carrington had interviewed Gordon had been a hard one for the candidate. The hands of the clock pointed to half-past six as Senator Hawkins rose from his seat in the inner office to take his leave. Gordon rose also, smiling and shaking hands with the distinguished leader of the fifth ward just as cordially as though he had been his first, instead of his hundredth, visitor for the day.
"Well, thank you for coming in to see me, Senator," he said, with the utmost sincerity in his tone. "I think we understand each other perfectly, and I'm delighted that I'm to have your support. You won't forget to remember me to Mrs. Hawkins, will you? And about the details—if you will see Doyle any time after to-morrow. I leave all that in his hands. Thank you again for coming in. I think we're going to win. Good-by."
As the door closed behind the senator, Gordon resumed his seat and rang for Doyle. The year's struggle had certainly not improved him physically. His face in repose looked tired and worn, and the vitality and energy of former days seemed strangely lacking.
"I guess, Doyle," he said, "I'm pretty near my limit for to-day. Anybody outside I've really got to see, or can you put them off until to-morrow morning?"
Doyle glanced with ready sympathy at the candidate's weary face. He, better perhaps than any one else, realized what the strain of the last few months had been.
"You do look a little off color," he said; "it's been a hard week for every one. Yes, I think I can fix things outside without making any friction. You've seen most of the big fellows already."
He hesitated a moment, as if suddenly recalling something, then added doubtfully: "There's one young fellow out there that I don't really know how to place. He's been around two or three times now. First, I took him for an ordinary 'heeler,' but to-day he said he wanted to see you right away, and intimated pretty strongly that it would be to your advantage to see him, too. I should almost advise you to see him, I think."
Gordon frowned. "The story sounds old enough," he said indifferently. "They all have something to tell me that's going to be to my advantage."
Doyle nodded. "I know it," he answered, "and I may be all wrong. It was his manner, really, more than anything he said. But suit yourself. I'm just giving you my impression."
Gordon sighed. "All right," he said, "show him in; and for Heaven's sake, clear out the rest of them. If this fellow's an ordinary cheap grafter, I'm going to use up the little strength I've got left kicking you down-stairs."
Doyle grinned and withdrew, presently to usher in a slight, wiry, young man, with a keen, alert face, and a manner that bore out Doyle's description. Without embarrassment he came quickly forward and took the vacant chair by the side of Gordon's desk.
"My name is Lynch, Mr. Gordon," he said, "Thomas Lynch; I live out in ward twenty-six, Bradfield's ward, and I should like very much to have charge of your interests there on election day."
Mentally Gordon enjoyed the process of kicking Doyle down the two steep flights. Outwardly he managed to keep to the tone of unvarying courtesy so necessary to the candidate for public office.
"I'm very glad to have a chance of meeting you, Mr. Lynch," he said smoothly, "and extremely sorry that I've already looked out for things in twenty-six. If you'd come in a couple of weeks ago, now—"
He stopped, as if to talk further was hardly necessary. Lynch nodded, as if he understood the situation. Then he drew his chair a trifle nearer.
"To tell the truth," he said, "I supposed that was about what you'd say. But there are exceptional circumstances back of my request. And when you hear them, I think you'll change the arrangements you've already made."
Gordon glanced sharply at his visitor. He was, indeed, out of the ordinary; either a monumental impostor, Gordon decided, or a ward leader of real importance somehow unknown to him.
"Suppose," he suggested, "you come right down to the facts. What are they?"
His answer was as sudden as it was unexpected. Lynch, a bright gleam of excitement in his eyes, leaned forward and whispered two or three brief sentences. In spite of himself, Gordon could not repress a start, and the eyes that looked into Lynch's were the eyes of a frightened man.
"You lie!" he cried, and then something in the other's look made him add quickly, "and if you were speaking the truth, what good would it do? It's your word against mine."
Lynch shook his head. Again he leaned forward and whispered in Gordon's ear. Then fell silence, until finally Gordon turned full on his accuser. "Come," he said, "we might as well talk this thing over now."
In the outer office, Doyle waited patiently. Fifteen minutes passed—twenty—a half hour. At last he heard the door leading to the hall close sharply, and, with a smile, entered the inner office.
"Well," he said, "are you going to kick me downstairs?" and then stopped short, struck by the expression on Gordon's face.
The candidate's lips forced a smile, belied by the expression in his eyes. With an effort he made reply.
"No, Doyle, you were right, as usual," he said, in a voice curiously unlike his own. "I'll see you in the morning," and, with steps that seemed to falter strangely, he passed quickly from the office and out into the street.
To Gordon, wearied and worn out in body and mind, the last few weeks of the campaign passed like an evil dream. Always the steady stream of callers, all more or less frankly with hand extended, not merely for the clasp of friendship, but with palm upturned as well. Always the same calculations with Doyle, based on the reports of their subordinates in city, town and ward. Always the same disbursements, some large, some small, but in number keeping at one steady high-water mark. And always, when evening came, and Gordon would think longingly of what one night of refreshing, uninterrupted sleep would mean to him, there was the meeting or rally which positively could not be missed, and Gordon, hating the sight of his big white automobile, would climb reluctantly in, and be whirled away to some hazily indefinite point on the map, to mount the platform and make his plea for a fair show for the rank and file, for the curbing of the Combine, and for an honest man—to wit, Richard Gordon—in the governor's chair.
Among the many disbursements made, there was one series which filled Doyle with wonder. In practically every case, Gordon, taking into consideration the fact that he was in a field entirely new to him, had handled the financial end of the campaign with extreme skill and good judgment. Therefore, to Doyle it seemed inexplicable that one Thomas Lynch, who had been appointed Gordon's representative in ward twenty-six, should be able to come to Gordon seemingly with the most outrageous demands, and yet, at the same time, in the vernacular, "get away with them." Once, indeed, Doyle had ventured to suggest that ward twenty-six was being treated in a manner far outweighing its political importance, but Gordon had answered him in a manner not to be mistaken, and Doyle, with an outward shrug of his shoulders, and much inward speculation, had let Mr. Thomas Lynch and Gordon run matters in twenty-six to suit themselves.
Three times in the last week of the campaign, in most unheard-of places and at most unheard-of hours, Gordon met the man whose weak eyes drove him to the wearing of blue goggles and to traveling in the protection of a closed carriage. The conferences were not over-long, and yet they seemed to be regarded as of importance by both of the principals, and after each of them, and especially after the last of the three, Gordon's spirits seemed better, and a certain well-known man about town, who for many years had made a specialty of election bets, in one day not only changed the odds from five to three on Endicott to practically even money, but in addition, even at the altered figures, with the greatest readiness covered everything in sight.
And thus matters went until at length the final night before election was reached. Gordon, in deference to time-honored custom, had reserved the night for a whirlwind tour of the city's twenty-six wards, but when the time arrived it found him for once under a doctor's care—a doctor who did not mix in politics, and who gravely recommended a month's rest, and an instant cessation from all work. Smiling grimly, Gordon left the celebrated practitioner's office, and went home to dose himself with brandy until, on the stroke of seven, gaunt, hollow-cheeked, with dark circles under his eyes, he climbed uncertainly into his place beside Doyle and started on the final effort of the campaign. And somehow, for six solid hours, with the platforms reeling under him, and the red fire dancing drunkenly before his eyes, he managed to get through his evening's task; half mechanically, indeed, and yet, served in good stead by his long practice in speaking and in meeting voters, so well that not one man in a hundred knew they were applauding a candidate who stood on the brink of nervous and physical exhaustion, finishing his battle on sheer nerve alone, game to the core, and ready to fight the people's fight against corruption in high places as long as he could stand or see. From the facts, however, the enterprising Doyle, weighing all the chances, decided that good capital could be made, and, quoting to himself with a grin his favorite phrase, "It has the additional merit of being true," he divulged to the reporters the true state of affairs, with the result that next morning the papers fairly teemed with splendid head-lines. "Gallant Gordon," "A Fighting Candidate," "Democratic Candidate Risks Death in the People's Cause," were some of them, and Doyle felt that for once, at least, the Ideal and the Practical had been effectively united.
And Doyle, indeed, in that last threatening night, came nobly to the front. To Gordon's benumbed brain, at many a critical moment, he furnished the inspiration, and always the inspiration was a happy one. Over in respectable ward ten, Gordon, finishing his plea for righteousness, for decency, for common honesty, had come out into the street to find his motor surrounded by a crowd of street urchins, all anxious in due time to become politicians, and all beginning on solid Democratic principles.
"That's Gordon," they chorused shrilly. "That's the guy." And then, in the jargon of the day, surrounding the automobile, they fairly rent the air with the insistent cry: "Well, what do you say?" "Well, what do you say?" "Can't get elected if you don't scatter the coin." "What do you say?"
The crowd, appreciating the incident to the full, paused. Gordon, not knowing whether he was in ward ten or ward twenty-six, mechanically was on the point of plunging his hand into his capacious, jingling pockets, when Doyle clutched his arm. "For God's sake," he whispered, "don't! Get up and tell the crowd you won't stand for such a thing. Give it to 'em strong."
The suggestion was enough. Gordon nodded, and in an instant was on his feet. "Gentlemen," he said quickly, "I have been telling you that there is something wrong in our state to-day, and when those in authority set the standards they do, what can you expect from the boys who, twenty years from now, will stand in our places? It gives us food for thought to see these boys, the products of our public schools, and yet I think the blame is scarcely theirs. If elected, I pledge myself to see that a course in the simple ethics of right and wrong in respect to our government is included in future in the curriculum of our schools, and for the present, let me say that, rather than give one of these boys a cent of the money for which he asks, without, I believe, fully realizing the enormity of which he is guilty, I will suffer defeat, and suffer it gladly, at the polls to-morrow."
He resumed his seat amid a genuine burst of cheers. "By George," one old conservative was heard to say to a friend, as the motor vanished in a cloud of dust, "that fellow's got the right ring to what he says. He means it, too, every word. I've voted the straight Republican ticket for thirty years, but I'm hanged if I don't give this man a vote tomorrow. I'd like to see what he'll do if he wins."
And so the evening passed. "Something to suit everybody," was Doyle's motto; the reporters were well looked after, and Gordon preached virtue in the tenth, eleventh and the kindred wards, and thence ran down the entire scale, until, out in twenty-six, about two in the morning, he used up the remnants of his voice in a fiery, scathing indictment of the money power—a speech savoring in its radicalism of sheer anarchy. Then, as Doyle got him back into the automobile, outraged nature at last rebelled, and Gordon was got home and to bed in a state bordering on collapse.
A long night's rest, a morning in bed, and the relief of having the strain of the campaign off his mind, all, however, combined to work wonders, and Gordon, choosing to watch the returns from a private office opposite the huge bulletin in front of his own newspaper office, by evening, attended only by Doyle and by his secretary, Field, was able to come down-town in comparatively excellent condition.
The street showed the usual election night scene: the crowds lining the sidewalks in front of the bulletin boards, and overflowing into the street itself; two rival brass bands engaging in a duel of sound; and ever, high above the waiting crowds, the huge lantern throwing the messages upon the glaring white of the screen.
Gordon drew a long breath. "Doyle," he said, "this is like the moment in a race, just after the starter has sent you to your marks, and just before he fires the pistol. Before the start you're all right, and the second you're off you're all right, but the intervening instant is hell."
Even as he spoke, the first returns were flashed upon the screen. The little town of Freeport was the first to register its vote. "Endicott—234; Gordon—139."
Gordon nodded approvingly, for Freeport had been stanch Republican since the memory of man. "What was it last year, Doyle?" he asked.
Doyle ran his eye down the table of last year's vote. "Two hundred ten Republican, eighty-four Democrat," he said quickly, "a good omen."
Quicker and quicker the returns came pouring in, almost faster than they could be flashed across on to the screen. Doyle and Field bent to their work, adding, comparing, calculating; Gordon stood silently watching the bulletins, each bearing its message of good or evil fortune. At length a little frown gathered upon his forehead; things in the western part of the state were not going to suit him. Gains, to be sure, he was making; in many instances, substantial gains; but as a whole he did not seem to be repaid for the efforts he had made. Once he turned disgustedly to Doyle. "The farmer," he observed, "is a pretty conservative animal. A little of the pig about him, and a good deal more of the cow."
Doyle grinned encouragingly. He had never deluded himself as to the leanings of the west and northwest. "Wait for the cities," he said. "They'll make up in five minutes for all you're losing in an hour now."
A half hour more and his words were verified. First, River Falls, with its huge mill population, went in a perfect landslide for Gordon; Linton and Kingmouth followed suit, and by nine o'clock Gordon was able to make the rough calculation that he had come into the capital itself only some fifteen thousand votes behind. On the capital, then, with its twenty-six wards and its vote of ninety thousand odd, depended the result.
From the crowd below Audible comment came floating up to the little group. "Win!" they heard one man shouting at the top of his voice, "of course he'll win! He'll take the city by thirty thousand!" Then a howl of protest, offers of huge sums of money, for the most part put forward by men without a dollar to their names, on the result of the city vote; finally a strident voice, repeating over and over again, "He can't beat the Combine!" "He can't beat 'em." "He ain't got nothing on Endicott through the city—not a vote!" Just for a second Gordon's eye met Doyle's, and simultaneously they smiled.
Ten minutes passed, and then the first ward made return—ward ten, the respectable. It went for Endicott, and by a fairly good margin, so good, indeed, that the Republican sympathizers in the crowd raised a little cheer. Fortunate, indeed, for them, that they did so while they had a chance, for with the next bulletin the rout of the Republicans and the signal defeat of the Combine began. Twenty-six came strong—overwhelmingly strong—for Gordon; twenty-four hundred and fifty-one to five hundred and twelve were the figures; then twenty, the ever-faithful Republican stronghold, actually, for the first time in its history, swung into the Democratic column by the narrowest of margins, then thirteen, fourteen, six and eight went by large majorities for Gordon, and, to complete the ruin already begun, the famous Combine wards, eleven, two and twenty-five, made the weakest showing to be imagined, somehow not even getting out their full vote, and giving Endicott, just where he might well have expected to make one last stand for victory, at the best nothing more than lukewarm, half-hearted support. "Overconfidence," the spokesman of the Combine said to the Press next day when interviewed; they had rated Gordon altogether too lightly, and had paid the penalty. That was all. And Gordon, carrying the city by rising twenty-five thousand votes, left the little room for his home, governor-elect of the state by a plurality of nearly ten thousand.
Doyle, with a hearty hand-shake, left him at his door. "'What we want,'" he quoted, without the shadow of a smile, "'is an honest man in the governor's chair.'"
Gordon, gazing with equal solemnity at his friend, for answer bared his head. "It has been," he said simply, "the people's fight," and then, for the greatest and most successful of us, after all, are only human, the governor-to-be and his right-hand man burst forth simultaneously into sudden, unlooked-for and most unseemly laughter. And they laughed until they could laugh no more.
Mrs. Holton doubtfully shook her head. "But he won't come," she said; "you can't fool him that way, Tom. He's too clever a man."
Lynch's eyes narrowed a trifle. "Oh, don't think I'm forgetting that," he answered; "on the contrary, that's the very thing I'm taking most pains to remember. It's the very fact that he is a clever man that's going to bring him here, where a stupid man, for love or money, wouldn't dare come on his life."
Mrs. Holton looked puzzled. "But I don't see—" she began.
Lynch leaned forward in his chair. "Look," he said abruptly. "Things can't go on the way they're going now. Either we've got to do something pretty quick, or else he will. That's the point. It's simple enough, and yet, when you begin to follow things out, right away you run into all sorts of complications. First of all, of course, he'd like nothing better than to have us out of the way. There's no doubt about that, is there?"
Mrs. Holton shivered. "No," she answered, in a low tone, "there isn't. And yet, knowing him the way we do, isn't it strange he hasn't tried before now?"
Lynch glanced at her keenly. "I've thought of that," he admitted. "There hasn't been anything of the sort with you, has there? Nothing melodramatic, like an automobile coming on you without warning, or a brick falling off a house, or a thug holding you up in a dark alleyway?"
The woman shook her head. "No," she said again, "and yet I've suffered as much the last few weeks, just from the dread of what he might do, almost as if he'd really tried. My nerve is pretty near gone, Tom."
Lynch nodded. "I know," he said briefly. "It isn't pleasant to feel there's some one gunning for you. At first I thought myself he'd try something of the kind, and of course he may yet, but I hardly think so. That's one of the complications I spoke about, for him. It's a good deal like one of these endless chains. It would probably be easy enough for him to get us put out of the way, but, even at that, he'd be no better off than before. There'd always be some one else to look out for, and they might not be as reasonable as we've been, either. No, I guess, on the whole, on that lay we're safe enough. If he ever makes a try, it's going to be a different one from that."
Mrs. Holton turned a shade paler. "You mean—" she faltered.
Lynch gave an impatient little laugh. "Exactly," he answered. "If he wants the job done, he'll do it himself. Try to do it himself, I should say. That's a pleasanter way of putting it."
A sudden gleam of comprehension darted across the woman's face, followed on the instant by an expression of abject fear. "God! Tom!" she cried sharply. "That's why you think he'll come!"
Lynch nodded. "That's it," he agreed. "He knows what he wants; we know what we want; it comes down to a question of who strikes first. With this difference—" he paused purposely for a moment, then added, with grim significance, "if we pull it off, it's successful blackmail; if he pulls it off, it's successful—murder."
Mrs. Holton's face showed gray in the lamplight. "God!" she muttered again.
There was a long pause. Then Lynch spoke again, half to his companion, half to himself. "No," he said meditatively, "there's no getting around it. In one way he's certainly got the best end of it. The thing he wants most is to see us out of the way; the thing we want least is to see anything happen to harm him. As I say, if we strike first, it merely costs him money; but, if he strikes first, that's all there is to it; we're done."
The woman, with an evident effort to pull herself together, drew a long breath. "And so," she said, with sarcasm, "knowing all this, you're going to try to get him down here, and give him the very chance he wants."
Lynch smiled patiently. "Well," he admitted coolly, "that's one way of putting it. But, on the other hand, you'll never catch a big fish with a bare hook, and I'm putting on the bait that I think's most likely to work. There are only three moves, really. First, the message that I'm going to send him; second, the way he's going to figure out what it means, and last, what's going to happen if we do get him down here."
Mrs. Holton nodded. "Well?" she said inquiringly.
"Well," repeated Lynch, "as far as the message goes, I simply send him word that I'm sick; confined to my bed, and very weak; that I've got no one here to look after me but you, and that I've got some political news of the very greatest importance that I've got to let him know about at once. Further, that if he can possibly arrange things to come down here and see me, he'll be well repaid. 'Well repaid,' is good, I think. And that's all there is to that."
The woman shook her head. "It's no use, Tom," she said, with conviction. "Either he won't come, or he'll bring some one with him, or he'll leave word where he's going in some such way that, if anything should happen to him, we'd be sure to be found out. No, it's no use."
Lynch smiled. "Those are the obvious things he would do, I'll admit," he answered. "But then he doesn't do the things that are obvious, as a general rule. I've studied the man pretty close since I've been in touch with him—a good deal closer than he thinks—and I've about made up my mind that I've got to the secret of how he's got along so fast. Most of us can't get rid of the habit of looking at everything from our own point of view; you know how you hear a hundred times a day, 'If I were in his place, I'd do so and so,' and all that sort of fool talk. Some of us, who think we're clever, get far enough to be willing to imagine how, under given conditions, the average man would think or act, not just how the particular kink in our own special little brain would work; but the governor's got further than that. He gets away from himself altogether—he even gets away from the average man altogether—and instead, if a man's worth being studied at all, he puts himself, as far as he's able, inside that man's skin; he eats, thinks, sleeps as that man, and when he's ready to make a move, he figures his own play by his own standards of thought and action, then plays the other man's game as the other man would play it, and so he's really on both sides of the table at the same time. God knows I hate Gordon, but God knows the man's smart as chain lightning, and anybody who undervalues him is a fool."
The woman frowned. "I don't understand what you're talking about," she said fretfully.
Lynch looked at her with ironical contempt. "My fault, I'm sure," he said gravely. "This was all I was trying to say; that I'm figuring now just how he'll look at this message he gets; not what you or I would think about it, or what anybody else in the world would think about it except the Honorable Richard Gordon himself. Is that any plainer?"
Mrs. Holton nodded. "What you think," she retorted, with unexpected spirit, "is plain enough, but what he's going to think isn't plain, and never will be."
"There," replied Lynch, "is exactly where we differ. I'll tell you just what he's going to think. In the first place, for any one who's been spending as much thought on us lately as I flatter myself he has, the first thing that will strike him is the fact that by coming down to this forsaken spot he could find us together, and in all probability would find no one else excepting ourselves. That's clear enough; and from that it's only a step to thinking how easy it would be to put us both away at the same time, and nobody the wiser. He'll have thought that far in about a tenth part of the time it's taken me to say it. Then he'll pull up short with the idea that the whole thing's a trap, and decide not to come; then he'll go into it deeper, and suddenly it's going to strike him what a big advantage he's really got over us; he knows we can't see him hurt; he's got the chance that the message is genuine, which is perfectly possible, and if it isn't, if things don't break right for him, he'll figure that he's sure to get away with a whole skin; and, if they do break right, he's got the chance of his life to get us off his mind for good and all. See?"
Grudgingly enough the woman nodded. "Yes," she said slowly. "But how about his bringing people with him; and how about his leaving word with the police where he's gone?"
Lynch laughed quietly. "Not for a minute," he answered confidently. "He's got to be careful, too. If he brings any one with him, he safeguards himself, and at the same time loses the chance to harm us, which is really the very thing that's going to bring him here. If he comes alone, and leaves word, it's going to cause a lot of talk; and what's more, some wise guy would be sure to follow him, looking for a chance to poke his nose into something that didn't concern him. No, if he comes, he'll come alone; and he's going to come, too; I can put my finger now on the thing that's just going to turn the scale."
Mrs. Holton glanced up. "And what's that?" she queried.
"A question," Lynch answered, readily enough, "of nerves. Something that no one who hadn't had a chance to watch the governor pretty carefully of late would ever think of; but I've had that chance, and I can see in a dozen little ways that he isn't just the man he was a year ago. At times he's irritable, something he's never shown before; he doesn't keep his mind as close to a subject as he used to; on two or three important matters he's been apparently unable to make up his mind; and twice, at least, he's made decisions that I'm sure politically are going to be disastrous for him. Mentally and physically, he's a tired man; little things bother him more than they should, and after he's brooded as much as I think he has over the trouble we're making for him, for once, very likely against his better judgment, he'll decide on the rash course, and he'll take a chance on coming down here just to get rid of the suspense of the whole affair. He'll come; I don't feel the slightest doubt about it."
"And if he does," said the woman thoughtfully, "you're really going to hold him up for fifty thousand."
Lynch nodded. "I think that's the proper sum," he said, "anything under that's too small, and anything over that he'd probably kick at. But that figure gives us enough to get by on for the rest of our days, and the idea of having us half way across the world for all time is going to strike him pretty strong. He knows he can trust me when I say this is the last deal, and I think he'd do it anyway, but when I've got it in reserve to tell him that it's a case of put up or shut up; that we get our fifty thousand right off the reel, or there'll be a vacancy in the office of governor, why, there's nothing to it. I think the whole scheme's a damned good one, if I do say so. He's got everything to live for; he'll have his mind at rest; and the money's only a flea bite for him, after all. Anyway, the game's getting too hot for me, and we might as well get it settled one way or the other. We'll get his money, or we'll get him."
Mrs. Holton rose to take her leave. "And if he should try to get in first?" she said apprehensively.
Lynch's mouth set grimly. "I'm not taking chances," he said significantly. "You needn't worry that anything's going to happen to you. You see that you get here to-morrow night at eight sharp, and we'll have a little rehearsal."
For half an hour after Mrs. Holton had taken her leave, Lynch, from time to time glancing at his watch, sat alone in silence. At length there came a faint knock at the door, and he rose to admit a thin, ferret-faced, slinking little figure of a man, with a sinister eye and a manner in general far from reassuring. Lynch welcomed him with scant courtesy, and his tone, as he bade him take a seat, savored less of a request than of a command.
"You're late," he said curtly.
The other nodded. "I know it," he answered sulkily enough, "I couldn't help it. What do you want of me, anyhow?"
Lynch's expression was the reverse of pleasant. "Come, come," he said sharply, "we'll cut that out, right away. You know what the bargain was; you ought to, since you were the one that was so anxious to make it. You've had a cinch, too. Just twice in three years I've asked you to do anything for me, and now, when I need you for a little job that I want to see pulled off right, you turn ugly, as if I was trying to rub it into you too hard. And I tell you, you can cut it out; if you don't feel like doing it, just say so, and I'll know what to do."
There was a certain cold menace in his tone, and the man threw him a glance malevolent, yet cringing, much like that of a beaten dog, subdued against his will.
"Why, sure," he whined, "don't go talking that way, Tom. I'm game enough. What's the row?"
Lynch motioned to him to draw his chair closer, and then, leaning forward, for some minutes he talked earnestly, the little man listening attentively, and from time to time nodding his head. As Lynch finished speaking, he glanced up rather with an air of relief.
"That sounds easy enough," he said, "most too easy. I'll want to look the place over, though, to make sure what I'd better use. Maybe I'm a little out of practice, anyway. I hope I don't get you in bad."
He grinned as he spoke. Lynch, observing him, allowed the faintest shadow of a smile to play for an instant around his lips.
"I hope not," he answered dryly, "both on my account—and on yours."
The little man glanced at him furtively. "Whatcher mean?" he demanded.
Lynch raised his eyebrows. "Mean?" he said carelessly, and with apparent lack of interest. "Why, what should I mean? Nothing, except that if you shouldn't happen to be in time, and anything unpleasant should happen to me, I've left everything looked out for. The police will have all the papers within twenty-four hours."
The man's impudent grin had completely vanished. He turned a sickly white, and swallowed with difficulty once or twice.
"Hell, Tom," he remarked at last, "but you follow a man up too close. I guess I'll be able to look after my end. Come on; let's see what the place's like," and together they left the room.
The governor stood by the window of the inner office, gazing out with unseeing eyes into the fast gathering twilight of the short November afternoon. The lights gleamed faintly through the haze—half mist, half rain—and the passing crowds, as they hurried by, seemed somehow to have about them an air of being shadowy, ghostlike, unreal.
Slowly the governor turned away from the window, and seated himself at his desk. For perhaps half an hour he sat motionless, his brow furrowed, his eyes questioning, his whole attitude that of a man who seeks to solve a problem which again and again comes around to the same starting point, and at the last still eludes him. Finally, with a sudden gesture of decision, he raised his head; the faraway expression left his eyes, and he was once again his old, alert, every-day self.
Closing his desk, he pressed the button for his secretary. Then, suddenly, as if overcome by utter weariness, he sank back in his chair, with eyes half closed, and thus Field, as he entered, found him.
"Nothing wrong, sir?" he asked anxiously. He, perhaps better than any one else in the city, save Doyle, knew the pace Gordon had been setting for himself of late.
The governor, with a sigh of infinite weariness, raised his head. "No," he said slowly, "nothing really wrong. Nothing but what a night's sleep will put right. But I am worn out, Bert, utterly worn out. We'll have to cancel everything for to-night, I'm afraid, and I'll just go home and get to bed."
The secretary nodded in quick appreciation. "That's right, sir," he cried quickly, "you couldn't do anything more sensible. It's only what I've been saying for a month past. No man on earth can treat himself as you've been doing. Flesh and blood aren't steel and iron. You're an exceptionally strong man, Governor, but other men, every bit as strong as you, are in their graves to-day simply because they got the idea they were something more than human. No, sir, you get a rest, and I'll look after everything for to-night. The dinner's really the only matter of official importance, and I'll get the speaker to represent you there. The other things it won't be any trouble to arrange. And no matter what happens, you take a good rest. No man ever deserved one more."
With a slight effort the governor rose. "Thank you, Bert," he said gratefully. "You're very kind. I think I'll do as you say."
The secretary nodded. "Good," he cried; "and if you'll just wait a moment, I'll have a carriage here."
The governor shook his head. "Thanks," he said, "I think I won't trouble you. I feel as if the air might do me good, and it's only a short walk, at best."
Then, as Field helped him on with his coat, he added: "There's one thing you might do, Bert, to head off any possible interruption. Just get my house on the 'phone, and tell Hargreaves that I'm at home, but that I'm not to be disturbed by any one. Tell him to answer the 'phone himself, and simply say that I'm indisposed, and can't see any one before nine o'clock to-morrow morning. Thank you. Oh, yes, indeed, I'll take care of myself. Good night."
Two hours later, although Governor Gordon was known to be at home, so completely worn out as to be confined to his room, a man whose face and figure, had not both been hidden by raincoat, slouch hat and umbrella, would have disclosed at least a startling resemblance to the governor's, strode along across the city through the downpour of rain, out towards the northeast streets; past Fulton, past Bradfield's, straight out across the deserted fields, now ankle-deep in mud, stumbling along the miserably kept by-paths, now fording miniature lakes and rivers, ever increasing in size as the torrents of rain steadily increased.
In spite of the discomfort, the weather conditions seemed to be to the man's liking, for as he bent forward in his efforts to breast the force of the gale, from time to time he somewhat grimly smiled. Then, as he neared the solitary house, visible only by the faint light gleaming uncertainly through the dripping panes, the smile faded suddenly from his face, his mouth set in a tense line, and into his eyes there came an expression keen, alert, watchful. As he entered the gate, he cast one quick glance about him through the darkness, and half-way to the door he thrust his right hand momentarily into his pocket, and as quickly withdrew it again; then, passing under the shadow of the porch, he lowered his umbrella, shook the water from his dripping garments, hesitated for just the veriest instant—and knocked.
He had but a moment to wait. Silence for a space, and then the scrape of a chair, footsteps along the hall, and the door was cautiously opened to reveal Mrs. Holton, lamp in hand, peering anxiously out into the darkness.
"Who is it?" she quavered, and he could see that the hand which held the lamp was shaking. "Is it you, Governor?"
Without ceremony Gordon pushed past her into the hall. "Of course it is," he said curtly. "Who did you think it was? Or do you have a run of callers on a night like this? If Tom's got me down here in this storm, and his news isn't what he makes it out to be, I'll break his neck; that's what I'll do to him."
Mrs. Holton, leading the way into the kitchen, managed to force a laugh. Then, as Gordon removed his dripping coat and seated himself by the fire, she remembered instructions, and grew suddenly grave.
"You'll be lucky to get anything out of him at all," she said. "He turned so weak an hour ago I was going out after brandy, but he wouldn't let me go till you came. I'd better go now, though, I guess. He said you could come right up."
Apparently frightened and painfully ill at ease, she rose and started to put on her coat. Gordon eyed her with a glance much like the look that a snake might cast upon some shrinking, terrified rabbit.
"Didn't care for the climate of Europe?" he said abruptly.
The woman turned a shade paler, and her hands trembled more violently still. "I suppose I oughtn't to have come back," she said, in a low voice, "but I couldn't stay. Everything was different from what I'd expected; everything had changed so; and I got homesick; I had to come back, that was all there was to it."
"Although," said Gordon lightly, "your return involved, of course, a little matter of breaking your contract with me; going back absolutely upon your pledged word."
The woman flushed scarlet. "Well," she said half-defiantly, "in a way I did, but I can't see that it makes any difference to you. I'm living here quietly, seeing no one, having nothing to do with any one, I should think it was all the same to you."
"That," answered Gordon evenly, "I imagine should have been left for me to decide. However, we needn't discuss it now. You're here, evidently, and taking care of my friend Lynch. I suppose, incidentally, of course your coming back had nothing to do with him."
The woman's eyes did not meet his. "Of course not," she lied glibly. "Why should you think such a thing?"
The governor raised his eyebrows. "Oh, it simply crossed my mind," he said indifferently; "seeing you here, taking care of him, I suppose. He's really pretty sick, is he?"
"Is he?" echoed the woman. "I should say he was. He's so weak; that's the trouble. He can hardly lift a finger. But he'll get well; it's just a question of rest, and decent care; that's all."
Gordon rose abruptly. "Well," he said, "I guess I'll go up and see him. Which room is he in?"
"Head of the stairs," she answered, "first door on the right. The only room with a light. You can't miss it. I'll be back in half an hour."
She had reached the door as she spoke, seemingly not anxious to delay her departure.
"One minute!" called Gordon sharply. "You understand, of course, that my being here to-night is absolutely to be kept secret. I shouldn't want you to make any mistake about that."
His tone was scarcely threatening, yet the woman seemed to understand. "Of course," she answered hastily. "Tom told me that. I understand everything."
Gordon smiled grimly. "That's good," he said dryly. "In half an hour, then."
He held the door open for her; then stepped to the window, and watched her until her figure was swallowed up in the blackness of the night. Then, turning leisurely, he made his way up the creaking stairs and into the sick-room.
In the dim lamplight Lynch's face, as he sat propped up among the pillows, looked ghastly enough, and yet, as Gordon came forward and pulled a chair up to the bed, it at once struck him that Lynch's eyes looked naturally bright, and when he spoke, his voice, though pitched low, was hardly the voice of a man who is seriously ill.
"Glad to see you, Governor," he said, "and sorry to trouble you so."
Gordon looked at him with keenest scrutiny. "It was some trouble," he answered, "and I dare say I've done a foolish thing in coming here at all. And now, let's not waste any time. What's your important news?"
There was a silence. Outside the grim northeaster drove the rain, sheet upon sheet, against the rattling casement and the flooding pane. Within, the flickering lamplight threw strange, darting shadows across the sick man's bed. Finally Lynch raised his eyes squarely to Gordon's.
"Governor," he said quietly, "ever since the day I came to see you first, we've both played the game with the cards on the table. I'm going to play it that way now. I haven't any news. I only used that to get you here."
Gordon did not start, or in any way show surprise. On the contrary, he nodded, as if in self-confirmation.
"I thought the chance was about even," he said quietly, "and yet I thought if it was a lie, that for you, Tom, it was a pretty clumsy one. I should be sorry to think I'd overrated you."
Lynch forced a smile, but far back in his half-closed eyes there gleamed a little angry light, "On the face of it," he admitted, "it was clumsy, and so I felt it had a better chance of passing for truth. I apologize, of course. I have no excuse, excepting my anxiety to see you."
The governor leaned back a trifle farther in his chair. "Well," he said, "and what's the story?"
Lynch did not hesitate. "It's like this," he said. "Of course you'd like to see me out of the way, and the old woman, too. That's so, isn't it?"
Gordon smiled faintly. "For the sake of your argument, whatever it is," he said dryly, "I'm perfectly willing to assume that it's so."
Lynch nodded appreciatively. "Now," he said quickly, "I'm tired of the whole game; sorry I ever started it. I'm afraid of you, Governor, and that's the truth. Let's cry quits. Give me what I want, and I'll get out for good. And what's more, I'll get the old woman away for good, too. I'm on the level. I'll do anything you say; sign any papers you want me to sign. Let's fix it up, and stop the game right here."
The governor's expression was one of faint interest. "How much?" he asked casually.
Lynch's answer came with equal promptness. "Fifty thousand," he said.
Gordon raised his eyebrows a trifle. "Quite a sum," he said mildly.
Lynch shook his head. "Not for what it gets you," he answered. "You'll find the value's there, as they say. It's a good bargain for both of us."
His voice was quiet enough, his tone conversational, and his gaze seemed not to be upon Gordon as he spoke, yet from the corner of his eye he was watching his visitor with a singular intentness. Gordon, as if wearied, yawned leisurely, raising his hands above his head and then replacing them upon his hips. Then, with a purely natural motion, he slipped them into the pockets of his coat.
"Well, Tom," he began slowly, his eyes fixed on the other's face, "I think, on the whole—"
Lynch gave a sudden cry, sharp, warning, insistent. Above the howling of the storm two quick reports sounded almost as one, but the little spurt of flame from the wall behind Gordon's back flashed just on the instant that the governor's finger curled about the trigger of his revolver. Aimlessly Gordon's bullet ripped through the flooring, but the skulking figure in the room adjoining had made sure of his aim, and with a choking cry the governor of the state pitched forward and lay motionless across the bed, with a bullet through his lungs.
In an instant Lynch, in a frenzy of haste, had leaped from the bed and started to dress. Then, suddenly, still but half-clothed, he ran to the door, just in time to meet face to face the slight, stooping figure stealing down the hallway. Lynch raised his hand. "Get that carriage!" he called sharply, "and get it quick! No skulking, now! Quick, damn you! Do you hear? Quick, I say!" And in a very ecstasy of impatience he stood, with face contorted and both arms uplifted and shaking, as if he could thus drive more speedily the crouching figure that nodded and slunk away down the stairs.
Back again he turned into the little room, and lifting the body of the governor on to the bed, he hastily tore away the clothing until the wound lay bare. Quickly his hand fumbled in his pocket until he had found what he sought; then, pulling the cork from the little bottle, with a tiny hook of shining metal he probed for an instant into the bullet's track, and then poured a drop or two of the liquid into the wound. With a long-drawn sigh, as if of relief, he rose, and gazed at the motionless body.
"And that settles you," he muttered, below his breath; "if you should come to, it won't be for long. Maybe that won't make your high-priced doctors sit up and take notice for a bit. And now, by God," he added brutally, "I guess I'll treat you to a little ride. You don't look like you'd make out very well walking it. Damn Durgin! Why doesn't he come?"
It was long after midnight when, through the driving sheets of rain, a carriage stole softly up the deserted street and stopped in front of the governor's dwelling. The driver, slipping from the box, opened the carriage door, and helped to hold upright the silent figure that his companion half lifted, half pushed, from within. In silence they carried their burden up the steps, in silence and in haste propped it against the outer door, and again in silence descended and drove away, until the outline of the carriage, quickly blending with the darkness, was at last lost to sight as it turned into the street leading away to the northeast.
Up-stairs, in the pleasant warmth, the faithful Hargreaves, for the twentieth time that night, stepped to the telephone. "Yes, sir," he answered, "all right, sir. Nine o'clock to-morrow morning. Oh, no, indeed. Nothing serious, sir. Just tired. There's no light in his room, now. I think he's sleeping sound."
Outside, braving the wind and the rain and the storm, the huddled figure, with its head sunk on its chest, leaned wearily, as if mutely pleading for shelter, against the fast closed door. The small hours of the morning came, and went. Still the figure was motionless. Spitefully the lashing rain beat down as if to rouse it; fiercely the gale, howling and moaning through the deserted streets, stopped to beat and buffet it; yet strangely, the figure, gazing with fixed, unseeing eyes, made no effort to resist, no effort to move. Governor Gordon slept soundly indeed.