One afternoon, many, many months after the interview just described, a few keen observers among the passengers on an incoming Southwestern Express—pulling with final, smooth, exhaustive effort into its eastern terminal—noted with considerable amusement that the pulses of one of their number had quickened to such a degree, that evidently their owner found it quite impossible to resist the temptation to leave her seat and politely push forward to the vestibule of the car, where she waited until the train came to a full stop. And so it happened that Shirley Bloodgood led the first flight of men who were hurrying up the long lanes of the station toward a roped-off space where groups of people waited expectantly for relatives and friends. Not that Shirley looked forward to seeing a familiar face among them; on the contrary she was fully aware,—since she had neglected to telegraph to any one the time of her arrival,—that there was not one chance in a thousand of any of her acquaintances being there; it was merely that she had fallen under the spell of that subtle spirit of unrest and haste, which all travellers, however phlegmatic, recognise the moment they breathe the air of the metropolis. One quick, scrutinising glance, it is true, the girl threw around and about her, as she passed through the crowd, but there was no disappointment on her face as now, looking neither to the right nor to the left, she brushed past what seemed to her a hundred cabbies each intent on making her their legitimate human prey.

Once clear of the exit she turned to the porter who was carrying her bag, tipped him, and directing his attention to an urchin in the centre of a howling mob of youthful street Arabs ready to pounce upon her bag the instant the porter dropped it, she cried:—

"Give it to him—him!"

It was a chubby, little, Russian Jew with red cheeks and glistening eyes whom she selected, and, with a howl of disappointment, the other ragamuffins opened up a lane to let the victor get his spoils, stood while Shirley and her escort marched off, and then swooped down upon another victim.

"Come with me," said Shirley to the boy; and suiting her pace to his running stride, she turned her face toward the west.

As Shirley walked rapidly along, the even pavement felt resilient to her well-shod feet. The keen air brought new vigour into her face, into her body, and in it—partial stranger as she was—she detected that which the metropolitan never scents: the salt vapour of the sea. Thousands of men and women passed her, and to one and all, figuratively speaking, she opened wide her arms. The glitter of a thousand lights found an answering sparkle in her eyes.

"There is nothing in the world like it! It will ever be home—the real home to me!" cried Shirley, half-aloud. "The noise, the bustle, the crowds, the life—Oh, how I do love it all!"

For a considerable time Shirley had been living on the heights of Arizona—a wilderness crowded with space, dotted here and there with human beings. Leaving her mother out there until, under new and altered circumstances, she could arrange their home in the big city that belonged to her,—and to-day, more than ever, she knew that she belonged to the big city, that in truth she was one of its people,—she had come all the way through without stopping, reasoning that in that way just so much less time would elapse before she could return and fetch her. In the West—a land where men stood out in bold relief, because they were few, they had pointed out to her rugged specimens noted for their physical prowess, their dare-devil recklessness of life. And viewing these swaggering heroes, with the sense of personal achievement, however remote, strong upon them, a vague longing had crept into her inner consciousness.

"Oh, if I were only a man!" she had said to herself.

But now, as she swept along on the right side of the sidewalk, facing the crowd that passed her on the left, she knew and felt that here was the place of the real struggle, the battle-ground, the fiery furnace that men were tested in. Out in Arizona, it had been man to man; but here in New York, it was one man against a million. And yet, woman-like, she thought that were she unsexed, she could meet this struggle with tireless energy, could strike where men had failed, could crowd her way up, inch by inch, to the top. And thus communing with herself, Shirley walked on and on, feeling that she could walk on forever through this rush of home-going-folk—people who had done something that day with their hands—people who had unconsciously pushed the earth another twenty-four hours upon his journey.

All of a sudden there came a strong tug at her skirts followed by a youthful voice that called:—

"Say, lady,"—setting down Shirley's bag in mild protest—"youse don't belong so far away! Ain't we got too far?"

After an instant of confusion, Shirley conceded the fact with a frank laugh.

"What am I thinking of!" she cried, "I want to go to the Bellerophon."

"This way then, lady," returned her small guide; and picking up her bag he turned southwards.

At sight of the unpretentious hostelry, which rejoiced in the distinction of possessing such a resounding name, Shirley was conscious of a variety of emotions. For a time, in the old days, it had been the fashion to patronise the Bellerophon, and Murgatroyd had been the first to take her there. On more than one occasion she had lunched with him and he had always been most enthusiastic over the respectful service, the wonderful cuisine and the quiet of the place. It was infinitely nicer, he had said, to have their luncheon there than to go to any of the huge, noisy caravansaries like the skyscraping, five-acre, concrete Monolith on the avenue. And she had agreed with him. Another time, he had explained to her that he was a one-club man; a man with few friends; and that, when tired out after a long, hard day's work, he greatly preferred a corner, all to himself, in the Bellerophon to dining with half-formed acquaintances at the club. In this, likewise, she had sympathised thoroughly with his point of view. And so, not unnaturally, it came about that Shirley had had little difficulty, on her long journey east, in convincing herself that it was merely her liking for the Bellerophon, and not at all anything more subtle that had caused her to decide upon this quaint, old hotel for her lonely stay in the metropolis. Besides, Miriam and she had often been there together, and for that matter, had grown to regard it as their own especial discovery. But, now, when she had crossed the portal, when the boy had dropped her bag at the feet of the Bellerophon porter,—charging her quite double, as the price of her unpardonable absentmindedness,—a flood of memories swept over her, and her face flushed and she laughed in an irritated sort of way on realising that all the time she had been thinking solely of Murgatroyd.

Murgatroyd! Would the man's name never be out of her thoughts! For a time, out west, it is true, she had been so engrossed in the cares and griefs of her almost hermit-like existence, that she had been able to look back upon the old scenes as chapters in some pathetic story book; but now, the odd, little prints on the walls all about her, the slender old gentlemen—aristocrats—who strolled to and fro, everything about the place recalled vividly the man who, not so very long ago, had been a part and parcel of her existence.

They showed her to her room—a wonderfully old-fashioned room without a particle of brass or glitter in it. Even the bedstead was of wood—a good, solid invitation to home-like rest and slumber.

"Get me an evening paper, please," she said to the bell-boy.

"Which one?" he asked.

"All of them," she replied with a beaming smile; after that the boy was not long in bringing them.

In Arizona Shirley had been reading news which was, generally, three, four days—frequently a week old. Out there her home papers had straggled in, stale and unprofitable. But these—of even date; why, they were damp from the press. Indeed, it was good to have them!

"Home, home," she whispered to herself as she sank into a chair. She decided that she would not dine until much later, for she wanted to think, wanted to classify the emotions which had rushed in upon her so suddenly. The easy chair responded to her mood; and with a sigh, and placing her hands behind her head, she leaned back contentedly, little knowing that she looked wonderfully pretty in that old room—a goddess in a travelling gown. All the care and sorrow that she had passed through in these last months had made a woman of the girl, had deepened her beauty. Time had rounded her gently. Travel-stained and feverish with the glow of a new experience upon her, she was more inviting, more human, more beautiful than she could possibly be in the latest Paris creation. And yet one of the fittest mates in a great metropolis was alone. East and west, everywhere she had wandered, men, great men, wonderful men had held out their hands to her beseechingly—drawn by a certain undefinable magnetism and attractiveness which she possessed—a charm of manner which few could resist. And Shirley had passed on, and had given no sign.

But now in the silence of her room, her loneliness appalled her. The insistent memories closed in around her. And suddenly she knew that she wanted to live as other women lived—with a man of her own choosing. But where could she find the man in whom she could put her faith?

After a while, Shirley picked up one of the papers lying on the table. At the first glance she started and laughed guiltily. There at the head of the third column, a word, a name had caught her eye: Murgatroyd! Paper after paper she now scanned, and all mentioned his name: some on the first page, others on the second; and with it invariably was coupled another name: Thorne! Finally, she rejected all but one, the Pillar,—the most conservative evening paper in the city,—and concentrated her attention upon it. At a glance, Shirley could see that with all its conservatism, the Pillar was holding up its hands in reverential hero-worship. In a two-column article it reviewed Murgatroyd's record from its invariably impartial viewpoint. "Murgatroyd had been clean," it said, "his reputation was unsullied." It even referred to the Challoner incident as a pitiful piece of falsehood which had strengthened Murgatroyd in his position. Shirley laid down the paper with a cry:—

"Oh, what a hypocrite he is!"

So Murgatroyd was still playing a game! The root of his record was dishonesty! Shirley was thoroughly sincere in her indignation. And yet after a little while she began to wonder whether his conscience troubled him—whether it had cost him anything? Oh, if only she could be sure of that! For she well knew, and a little sigh of shame escaped her, that if only he had abandoned all pose, shown himself in true colours, even become a machine politician, she could have forgiven him everything. Not a little distressed, therefore, she read on and on, marvelling at the Pillar's devotion, but soon it became apparent to her that its editor was picturing Murgatroyd more in the light of a losing martyr than as a successful saint. For the article pointed out the strength of the railroads, of Wall Street, of the brewers, of the machine, and predicted mournfully that Murgatroyd was bound to fall before all his powerful enemies, concluding with: "More the pity, more the pity."

Presently she read the other papers; all contained more or less adverse criticism of him. One thing, however, stood out: fanatic though some of them called him, they were unanimous as to his honesty of purpose—a man who could not be bought, who could not be swerved from the straight and narrow path. Moreover, in none of them was there any reference to the existence of Challoner. The Challoners had been forgotten—had dropped completely out of sight.

It was after eight o'clock when Shirley was reminded of a sudden that she was desperately hungry. Once in the dining-room, she directed her steps to the small alcove—the corner which Miriam and she had always occupied, after the first of those memorable occasions when she had lunched there with Murgatroyd. Taking her place at the table with a sigh of satisfaction, Shirley threw a glance around the room. Palms screened her table, making it impossible for her to be seen, although it was perfectly easy for her to see every one in the room. There were few dining at that hour, and so after ordering her meal, she was thrown back once more on her reflections—reflections of Murgatroyd; and she fell to wondering in what way had the possession of almost a million dollars changed him. Had he grown stout? Was he full-faced, or possibly a bit insolent, overbearing and aggressively genial with a wide laugh? In any event, she was quite positive that he was prosperous-looking—too prosperous-looking; and, all in all, it was anything but a pleasant picture which she mentally drew of him.

The waiter brought the chosen viands and withdrew. Shirley ate eagerly. The air of the city was full of life and body; it gave her an appetite. Being quite a material personage, she enjoyed her dinner thoroughly. Things tasted deliciously to her, and yet her thoughts wandered.

"If only Billy had been different ..." she kept saying to herself.

Suddenly the palms were parted, and a fat man approached her table. On seeing it occupied, he mumbled his surprise and backed out again. But while pushing his way through the palms he extended a short arm and said:—

"That table over there, then."

The remark was made to a companion, whom as yet Shirley could not see. An answer, however, came in a man's voice; both men seemed disappointed: evidently, this corner was a favourite with others as well as herself. And the fat man—his face was strangely familiar. Who might he be? Shirley was sure....

Broderick. That was the man: the funny, vulgar politician who had been pointed out to her at the Challoner trial. Shirley wondered what a man of his stamp was doing in the quietude of the Bellerophon. Somehow, he did not seem to belong there; she laughed silently to herself as through the palms she watched him settle himself laboriously at a table in another corner. The seat he had taken faced away from her, and she noted how broad, how terribly broad was his back.

"But a power in politics—the real thing!" she cried half-aloud. It was not surprising, she told herself, that men of refinement hesitated a long time before going into politics, if this were a type of the men they had to compete with. Her thoughts running on in this strain, she determined out of curiosity to get a glimpse of Broderick's companion. It was not difficult to get a good look at him, as the man sat facing her.

At the first glance, Shirley had a faint suspicion that likewise she knew that face; then she looked again and for a moment she was startled. "No, it can't be possible that—" At that instant the stranger looked up and dispelled her doubts. She was face to face with the man who had filled her thoughts for the last two hours.

"And so that is Billy Murgatroyd!" she murmured to herself. He was the same Murgatroyd she had known, but different from the man she had pictured. And she would have gone on indefinitely criticising his looks, but she was suddenly interrupted by the sound of voices. It was Broderick talking, his big voice filling the room. Shirley listened attentively.

"Blamed good place to get away from the gang," he was saying; and there was a satisfied look on his face as he glanced about the room.

While Broderick ordered the dinner, Murgatroyd leaned forward and made some remark. Instantly something in the tone of his voice, or it may have been his manner, told the girl that the relations between the two men were, in a degree, confidential. The back of Broderick assumed the attitude of a political adviser. Shirley observed that he gesticulated a great deal and often wiped his brow with a handkerchief which, even at a distance, she could see was over-embroidered, but in none of his movements so far was there the slightest suggestion of hostility.

"And this is the use that Murgatroyd has made of poor Miriam's money!" she cried to herself. "He's bribing the enemy!"

Shirley bowed her head in shame.

Presently she lifted it again, for before their dinner had arrived and while Broderick talked on, Murgatroyd rose and walked for a brief while up and down behind the table; and, unseen herself, she scrutinised him closely.

The first thing that her woman's eye noted was that Murgatroyd was not in evening clothes; he wore a business suit, not altogether new, which to her thinking, needed pressing; it looked as if he had lived in it from daybreak to daybreak. He was no stouter than when she had last seen him; if anything he appeared to have lost flesh, yet his figure still retained its strong but fine lines. And Shirley was forced to acknowledge to herself that it had lost none of its grace. But on his face was the dull flush that results from the strain of enthusiasm, of excitement, of overwork. He looked fagged out, and his eyes were restless, though they glowed with steadiness of purpose. From time to time he glanced quickly about him, taking in every detail of the room, studying the people in it, and even peering through the palms that hid the girl, as though he wondered what interloper had had the temerity to rob him of his lair. One thing, however, impressed her more than anything else: his demeanour toward Broderick. There was within it not a particle of that confidential concession that Broderick seemed ever ready to offer; on the contrary, it suggested a suspicious watchfulness. Murgatroyd had every appearance of being a zealous, jealous taskmaster who had set himself over a paid but uncertain servant.

And Broderick,—only once did Broderick turn his head so that Shirley might see his face; but in that one instant the girl divined what she believed to be the situation, the true force of the drama that was being played by the two men. Broderick's face, glance, his whole being, indicated the cunning of the man; he was treachery personified, at least, so he appeared to Shirley; and she told herself, as she sat there and studied him, that any one with half an eye could see that he was hoodwinking the man opposite him.

"Murgatroyd was being fooled!" There was no doubt about it. The attitude of both men expressed it; but, more than anything else, Murgatroyd's air of feverish endeavour, of expenditure of energy, confirmed it. With Miriam's thousands he had paid for something that had not been delivered. Broderick had taken the money—every dollar of it, of that Shirley was thoroughly convinced,—and had given nothing in return. In the girl's mind there was no accounting otherwise for Broderick's leer; in no other way was it possible to explain the desperate effort that Murgatroyd seemed to be making. But, at last, the lawyer grew angry; he hit the table repeatedly with his fist and glared at Broderick. And the huge politician pretended to cower and tried to propitiate him.

"Yes, they are fooling him!" she repeated to herself. Miriam's money had been of no avail; Murgatroyd had failed to accomplish his purpose.

After a while this feeling of contempt for his failure gave way to a wave of pity. What right had she to judge him at all; what manner of woman was she, that she should set herself up to determine whether his lesson was deservedly bitter or not; and what should be his punishment. "Money so gotten will never do him any good," Miriam had said after the scene in the court-room; and how true her words had proved! Why, the papers, even though they believed in his honesty, had as much as said that he was going down to defeat. And then, in turn, her feeling of compassion was succeeded by one of gladness. She was not a little surprised to find herself fervently wishing that Broderick had robbed him of every dollar; but, later on, her cheeks burned furiously when an honest introspection disclosed to her the real motive of this desire. For, after all, what if Murgatroyd would come to her and say:—

"I have sinned, and I have lost; be merciful to me, a miserable sinner."

What if some day he should come to her free of all hypocrisy, stripped of all save truth, a beaten man, what then? Well, she felt unutterably lonely, she wanted to be loved, and after all, he had helped her friend by setting her husband free.

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