This event had been followed by the advent of five of the old fellows who had obtained furloughs and ridden in from the Soldiers’ Home for the express purpose of assuring him of their support, as the vindicator of their honor, wringing his hand and cheering on the fight.  They retired with Cap into the back room and emerged shortly, beaming and refreshed.  They had no votes to cast in the city, but what matter?

On their heels, Mike O’Rourke rushed in with two budgets of false registrations which he had been able to ferret out by the aid of the drivers of his grocery wagons.  He embraced David, exchanged shots with the major, and departed in high spirits.  Then quiet came to the Gray Picket for a time and Kildare plunged into his papers with desperation.

“David,” called the major after a very few minutes of peace, “here’s a call for you on the desk.  You’ll recognize the number—­remember, a firm hand, sir—­a firm hand!” with which he collected his hat, coat, and the captain and took his departure, leaving David for the moment alone in the editorial rooms.

He sat for a few moments before the receiver and twisted the call slip around one of his fingers.  In a moment the affairs of state and the destiny of the city slipped from his shoulders and his mind took up the details of another problem.

The contest for the judgeship was not the only one David Kildare had taken upon himself—­the second was being waged in the secret chambers of two hearts, one proud, exacting and unconvinced, the other determined and at last thoroughly aroused.  Phoebe had brought the crisis on herself and she was beginning to realize that the duel would be to the death or complete surrender.

And in the preliminaries, which had been begun on the Saturday night hunt and carried on for the last three days, David Kildare had failed to make a single false move.  His natural and inevitable absorption in his race for the judgeship had served to keep him from forcing a single issue; and Phoebe had had time to do a little lonely, unpursued thinking.

He had been entirely too clever to arouse her pride against him by a suspicion of neglect in his attitude.  His usual attentions were all offered and a new one or two contrived.  He sent Eph to report to her with his electric every afternoon—­she understood that he was unable by the exigencies of the case to come himself to take her to keep her appointments as was his custom.  Her flowers were just as thoughtfully selected and sent with the gayest little notes, as like as possible to the ones that had been coming to her for years.  He ordered in an unusually large basket of eggs from the farm and managed to find a complicated arrangement of rope and pulleys, the manipulation of which for an hour or more daily was warranted to add to or detract from the stature of man or woman, according to the desire of the dissatisfied individual.  His note with the instrument was a scintillating skit and was answered in kind.  But through it all Phoebe was undoubtedly lonely.  This call, the second since Saturday and the second in the history of their joint existences, betrayed her to the now wily David more than she realized—­perhaps!