The senator moved the open book a little farther aside when his son made an abrupt entrance into the cheerful room.

“Well, son, you made out to get here after so long a time, didn’t you?” he said gently.  And then:  “How’s the broken head to-day?”

“Better,” answered the son shortly, adding:  “It’s the least of my troubles just now.”

“That’s good,” was the hearty comment.  Then, with the long stem of the pipe pointing to a Morris-chair:  “Draw up and sit down.  I reckon the drive has tired you some, even if you won’t admit it.  Where’s the little girl?”

Evan Blount saw instantly that he must be brief and pitiless.

“Patricia is waiting in the car to drive me back to town,” he explained, forcing himself to speak calmly.  “I have an appointment with Chief Justice Hemingway which must be kept, and he will wait in his chambers in the Capitol only until five o’clock.  Father, do you know why I have made that appointment?”

The senator wagged his great head in a way which might mean anything or nothing, and said:  “How should I know, son?”

“I hoped you would know.  It’s not a very pleasant task for me to tell you,” the younger man went on, ignoring the chair to which the long-stemmed pipe was still pointing.  “A short time ago—­yesterday, to be exact—­evidence, legal evidence, of corruption and false registration in four of the city wards, and in a number of outlying districts in the State, was put into my hands.  This evidence incriminates a group of ringleaders and a still larger number of election officers.  You know what I’ve got to do with it.”

The older man nodded slowly.

“Yes, I reckon I know, son; and I’m not saying a word.  If you weren’t a Blount, I might ask if you haven’t learned that one of the first rules in the book of politics is the one that says we mustn’t hang the dirty clothes out where everybody can see ’em, but I know better than to say anything like that to you.”

The young man’s heart sank within him.  It seemed evident that his father was still unsuspecting, still unconscious of the dreadful consequences to himself.  Only utter frankness could avail now.

“I can’t discuss the question of expediency with you,” he said hastily, “any further than to say that I’d cheerfully give ten years of my life to be able to consider it.  Let me be perfectly plain:  This evidence I am speaking of involves you personally.  If the papers are put into Judge Hemingway’s hands there will be a searching investigation, prompt indictments, criminal proceedings, and all the disgrace that the widest publicity can bring upon the men who are responsible for the present desperate state of affairs.”

The senator had laid his pipe aside and was staring soberly into the fire.  “Go on, son,” he said quietly; “let’s have the rest of it.”