He led the way into the house without knocking.

“And this is Aunt Charette,” he volunteered.  In the centre of the spotless fore-room a ponderous woman rocked in her huge chair and knitted placidly.  She was a picture of peaceful prosperity in black silk gown and gold-bowed spectacles.

“And here’s the nature of Aunt Charette’s institution.”  He pointed to an open cupboard in which there were many bottles.

“Oh! your local liquor agency,” hazarded the chairman.

“No, sir!  Aunt Charette’s own dispensary for the ills of the mind and fatigues of the body, and run according to my own notions.  It beats your bar and white jackets, Luke, or that solemn farce of cheap liquors and robber prices of the State agency system.  You come in here, if you are not a drunkard or a minor or a pauper—­and Aunt Charette knows ’em all—­and you go to the cupboard and get your drink, or you go out there in the store-room and get your bottle, and hand the change to Aunt Charette and walk away.  No other rumshop tolerated in the section, and pocket peddlers run out of town on a rail!  No treating, no foolishness, no fraud.  Pays her fine twice a year without going to court, the same as you.  And no extras!” He smiled at the chairman significantly.

“No extras, eh!” mused Mr. Presson, enviously.  “You must have a different crowd of county officers than we’ve got down our way.”

“Perhaps so,” admitted the old man, and then he allowed himself a bit of a boast; “but the secret is, you see, this little institution is something I’ve taken under my own wing.”

It was an ill-starred moment for that honest boast.  There came a thumping of feet in the hall.  The man who burst in was flushed and sweating and excited.

“I’m glad you’re here, Squire,” he panted.  “You’re just in the nick o’ time.  They’re going to jump on the old lady.”

“Who’s going to jump?”

“High Sheriff Niles and his posse.  They ain’t more’n ten rods behind, jigger wagon and all.”

The Duke of Fort Canibas stared a moment at the herald.  Aunt Charette raised her eyes to her protector with the air of one secure under the wings of a patron saint, and went on knitting.

“Gad!” hissed the State chairman.  “They certainly do mean you this time, Thelismer!  Discrediting your pull in county politics an hour before your caucus!  Some one is showing brains!”

Thornton did not answer.

“How in blazes have they pulled over the sheriff?” demanded Presson.  But the old man merely stared at the door.

High Sheriff Niles entered at that moment.  He stood on the threshold and scowled.  He was a stocky man, who had been a butcher.  His face was blotched by ruddiness resembling that of raw meat.  Behind his cockaded silk hat pressed the faces of his aids.  The little yard was filled with men who peered in at the windows.  A big truck wagon was creaking as its horses backed it to the door.