Frederic, released from the long day’s strain, did not take this facetiousness meekly, but Marcia was silent.  For once the “brightest Morganstein” felt her eclipse.  But while they stood on the curb, waiting for the limousine to draw up, a newsboy called:  “All about the Alaska bill!  Home Rule for Alaska!”

The special delegate bought a copy, and Marcia drew close to his elbow while they scanned the message together.  It was true.  The bill, to which they both had devoted their energies that season in Washington, had passed.  Feversham folded the paper slowly and met his wife’s brilliant glance.  It was as though she telegraphed:  “Now, the President must name a governor.”

CHAPTER XXXII

THE OTHER DOCUMENT

The argument, which Miles Feversham opened with unusual brilliancy the following morning, was prolonged with varying degrees of heat to the close of another week; then the jury, out less than two hours, brought in their verdict of “Not Guilty.”

And that night, for the first time since Tisdale’s return, Foster climbed to the eyrie in the Alaska building.  “I came up to thank you, Hollis,” he began in his straightforward way.  “It was breakers ahead when you turned the tide.  But,” he added after a pause, “what will the President think of your views?”

Tisdale laughed softly.  “He heard most of them before I left Washington, and this is what he thinks.”

As he spoke, he took a letter from the table which he gave to Foster.  It bore the official stamp and was an appointment to that position which Miles Feversham had so confidently hoped, with Marcia’s aid, to secure.

“Well, that shows the President’s good judgment!” Foster exclaimed and held out his hand.  “You are the one man broad enough to fit the place.”  After a moment he said, “But it is going to leave you little time to devote to your own affairs.  How about the Aurora?”

Tisdale did not reply directly.  He rose and walked the length of the floor.  “That depends,” he said and stopped with his hands in his pockets to regard Foster with the upward, appraising look from under knitting brows.  “I presume, Stuart, you are through with the syndicate?”

Foster colored.  “I put in my resignation as mining engineer of the company shortly after I came out, at the beginning of the year.”

“And while you were in the interior,” pursued Tisdale, “you were sent to the Aurora to make a report.  What did you think of the mine?”

“I thought Frederic Morganstein would be safe in bonding the property if he could interest you in selling; it looked better to me than even Banks’ strike in the Iditarod.  This season’s clean-up should justify Weatherbee.”

“You mean in staying on at the risk of his reason and life?”

Foster nodded; a shadow crossed his open face.  “I mean everything but—­his neglect to make final provision for his wife.”