“I wonder who this Potter is, and what all that talk meant?” Larry thought to himself as he took a chair, and watched the messenger enter a small room at the end of the big apartment.

In a little while Sam, who appeared to be a sort of janitor around the place, came back to inform Larry that Sullivan would see him.

“Now for my game of bluff,” said the young reporter to himself as he entered.

The political leader was sitting behind a desk, littered with papers.  He was a small man, wearing glasses, and looking like anything but the chief factor of an important Assembly district.  Mr. Sullivan was bald-headed, and had rather a pleasant face, but there was a look about him that indicated force of character, of a certain kind, and a determination to succeed in what he undertook, which is what makes a good politician.

“You wanted to see me?” and the question came in a low voice, totally unlike the loud tones Larry had, somehow, associated with an important politician.

Larry felt the eyes of Sullivan gazing sharply at him, as though they were sizing him up, labeling him, and placing him on a certain shelf to be kept there until wanted.  Sullivan was a good reader of character, as he showed by his next question.

“What paper are you from?”

Larry started.  He wondered how the man knew he was from a paper, for Larry had said nothing about it.  Seeing his confusion Sullivan laughed.

“Wondering how I took your measure, aren’t you?” he asked, and when Larry nodded he went on:  “You have the air of a newspaper man, which you may consider flattering, as you have acquired it after having been in the game only a short time.  I assume that because it’s my business to know most of the reporters in this city, and I never saw you before.  If you didn’t look like a newspaper man I’d size you up for one, because only a reporter, or some of my political friends, would come here to see me.  You’re not the one, so you must be the other.  Now what do you want?” and the politician’s voice became rather sharp.

“I came here to find out if it’s true that you’re going to support Reilly because he can deliver the goods from Mr. Potter,” Larry explained, resolving to chance all at once.

Sullivan started, and half arose from his chair.  Then he seemed to recover himself.

“Some one’s been talking!” he murmured, and, glancing quickly at Larry, he asked: 

“Who is Mr. Potter?  I’m afraid I don’t understand you.”

“He’s the financier interested in the new line,” went on Larry, boldly.  “It’s going to be a good thing for the district, I understand.  Come now, Mr. Sullivan,” he went on, assuming a familiar air he did not feel, “you might as well own up and give me an interview about deciding to support Reilly.”

For several seconds the leader gazed at Larry, as if seeking to read his inmost thoughts.  Then he spoke: