“For this one time, Hardwick, I can.  For this one time in the history of the Sage-Brush State, the slate—­the machine slate—­is as clean as the back of your hand.  When the court comes to investigate, it will find that every crooked deal in this campaign has had a railroad man or a corporation man at the back of it.  Let me tell you what’s due to happen.  Chief Justice Hemingway had luncheon with me to-day, and he came early enough to give me a quiet hour before we went to table with the ladies.  There is going to be an investigation, and some sharp, shrewd young lawyer is going to be appointed by the court to take evidence.  When this young man gets to work, every wheel in the machine is going to roll his way.  Every bribe you’ve offered and paid, every false name you’ve put on the registration lists, every deal you’ve made with men like Pete Hathaway and McDarragh, has had its witnesses, and by the gods, Hardwick, they’ll testify—­every man of them!”

Again the vice-president sprang from his chair, but this time it was to walk the floor with his head bowed and his hands in his pockets.  The listener in the musicians’ gallery found a seat and sat down to let the intoxicating, overwhelming joy of it all have its will of him.  In the fulness of time the tramping magnate who had been so crushingly out-generalled in his own chosen field came to stand before the big man, who was still quietly smoking in the sham-Sheraton arm-chair.

“You spoke of the appointment of a special prosecuting attorney, David,” he said in a harsh monotone.  “Who will it be?”

“You’ve guessed it already, I reckon.  It’ll be the boy, Hardwick.  Hemingway will appoint him if he is willing to serve.”

“He’s taken our retainer!” snapped the vice-president.

“Not much, he hasn’t! you hired him for wages, and if he wants to resign—­he has resigned, by the way—­and take another job, I reckon he can do it without breaking any of the Ten Commandments.”

“We can’t stand for that—­you know we can’t.”

“No; I don’t think you can—­not as a corporation.  Besides the flock of witnesses that we can drum up, he’ll have those letters that we were talking about a while back.  You missed fire on that, too, Hardwick.  What your man dynamited out of Evan’s office safe, and what you destroyed, were only clever copies.  The real letters were stolen by the boy’s friends, and little as you may believe it, the object of that theft was to give you this last chance.  The boy was mighty hot under the collar, and we couldn’t be sure that he wouldn’t start the fireworks before the band was ready to play.  He would have started them, too, if his match hadn’t been taken away from him.”

Mr. McVickar walked around the other end of the table-desk and sat down heavily.

“You’ve spoken twice of a ‘last chance’ David,” he said grittingly.  “What is it?”