Kent hesitated, not because he was afraid to trust the man Oliver Marston, but because there were some things which the governor of the State might feel called upon to investigate if the knowledge of them were thrust upon him.  But in the end he took counsel of utter frankness.

“So nearly that if Bucks and the receiver had reached Gaston last night, our road would now be in the hands of the Plantagoulds under a ninety-nine-year lease.”

The merest ghost of a smile flitted over the lieutenant-governor’s face when he said, with his nearest approach to sarcasm: 

“How extremely opportune the confusion of train-orders becomes as we go along!  But answer one more question if you please—­it will not involve these singularly heedless railway employees of yours:  is Judge MacFarlane in Gaston now?”

“He is.  He was to have met the others on the arrival of the special train.”

There were footsteps on the stair and in the corridor, and Marston rose.

“Our privacy is about to be invaded, Mr. Kent.  This is a miserable business; miserable for everybody, but most of all for the deceived and hoodwinked people of an unhappy State.  God knows, I did not seek this office; but since it has fallen on me, I shall do my duty as I see it, and my hand shall be heaviest upon that man who makes a mockery of the justice he is sworn to administer.  Come to the capitol a little later in the day, prepared to go at once to Gaston.  I think I can promise you your hearing on the merits without further delay.”

“Thank you,” said Kent, simply, grasping the hand of leave-taking.  Then he tried to find other and larger words.  “I wish I could do something to show my appreciation of your—­”

But the lieutenant-governor was pushing him toward the door.

“You have done something, Mr. Kent, and you can do more.  Head those people off at the door and say that for the present I refuse positively to be seen or interviewed.  They will find me at the capitol during office hours.”

It was seven o’clock in the evening of the fiercest working day Kent had ever fought through when the special train—­his own private special, sent to Gaston and brought back again over the strike-paralyzed road by the express permission and command of the strikers themselves—­set him down in the Union Station at the capital.

Looking back to the gray of the morning when he had shaken hands with Governor Marston at the door of the room on the top floor of the Kittleton Building, the crowding events made the interval seem more like a week; and now the events themselves were beginning to take on dream-like incongruities in the haze of utter weariness.

“Evening Argus! all about the p’liminary trial of Governor Bucks. Argus, sir?” piped a small boy at the station exit; but Kent shook his head, found a cab and had himself conveyed quickly through streets still rife with excitement to the Clarendon Hotel.