“Of which Webb already claims sixty-five.”

“Claims!” growled Galt.  “He may claim the whole confounded lot if he wants to.  The question is—­will he get them?”

“He will if Rann can manage it.  It isn’t mere party bitterness that actuates that man—­there’s a good deal of personal spite mixed with it.  He hates Burr.”

“Oh, I dare say.  But he overreached himself when he tried to get control of the committee.  They decided in favour of Saunders in the last Southside contest, and Saunders is pledged to Burr.”

Tom drew out his watch and moved towards the door, but having reached it, he swung round with a question:  “Seen Webb since your debate?” he inquired.

Galt nodded.  “I had a chat with him in the lobby at the ‘Royal’ last night, and I must admit that, so far as Webb’s concerned, this campaign is a particularly decent one.  He can’t help being a gentleman any more than he can help being a demagogue.  Both instincts are in the blood.”

“Yes, I rather think you’re right.  Well, good-bye.  I’ll see you Tuesday.”

He ran downstairs, breaking into a whistle on the way, and Galt, after a moment’s hesitation, took up his hat and followed him.  He had an appointment with Burr’s campaign manager, who had his headquarters at the Royal Hotel.

It was there that Galt found him, holding a jubilant gathering in his rooms.  He was absolutely sanguine of success, and when Galt left an hour later, he sought to impart to him his emphatic confidence.  “My dear sir, I can conclusively prove to you that we shall win,” he said, one eye on Galt and one on a reporter who had just entered.  “I can prove it to you in figures—­and figures never lie.  There is not the faintest doubt that Burr will have seventy votes by the meeting of the caucus.”

“Glad to hear it,” was Galt’s response; but in passing through the lobby on his way out he encountered an equal assurance in the opposite camp.  Rann, who was the centre of a small group, broke away and came towards him.

“I suppose the governor has reconciled himself to defeat, eh, Mr. Galt?”

Galt shook his head with a laugh.  “Defeat!  Why, Major, we’re just beginning to enjoy our triumph.  Burr has his seventy votes in his hand and he keeps it closed.”

Rann flushed angrily, his mouth twitching.  “If you will come this way, sir, I can prove to you on paper—­on paper, sir—­that Webb has his majority as plain as if the caucus was over.  Seventy votes!  Why, bless my soul, he must have counted in every Republican and Independent that will be sent up.  Seventy votes!  I tell you he won’t have forty—­not forty, sir!”

“Ah, he laughs best that laughs last, my dear Major.”

And he left the hotel, walking rapidly in the direction of the Capitol.  Once or twice he stopped to speak to an acquaintance who wanted his opinion of Burr’s chances, and to such inquiries his response was invariably an expression of perfect conviction.  But when alone his uncertainty appeared—­and he acknowledged to himself that he was afraid of Rann’s last card.  What it was he did not know, but he knew that when the time came it would be well played.  Bassett was right—­it was not party bitterness that moved Rann, it was personal hatred.