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.