“Why will it?”

“Because, apart from the railroad and the anti-railroad factions, there is a very complete and smoothly running machine organization.”

“And my father is identified with the machine?”

Again Gantry choked over the singular lack of information discovering itself in Blount’s question.

“Land of glory!” he ejaculated.  “Where have you been burying yourself, Evan?  Didn’t I just tell you that he is the biggest man in the State?  Oh, no”—­with heavy irony—­“he isn’t identified with the machine—­not at all; he merely owns it and runs it.  We may think we can swing a safe majority in the legislature, and the ‘antis’ may be just as firmly convinced that they can.  But before either side can turn a wheel it will have to walk up to the captain’s office and get its orders.”

“Ah,” said Blount, and a little later:  “Thank you, Dick, I am pretty badly out of touch with the Western political situation, as you’ve discovered.”  Then he changed the subject abruptly.  “How long will your traffic meeting last?”

“We practically finished to-day.  An hour or two on Monday will wind it up.”

“After which you’ll go West?”

“After which I shall go West by the Monday noon train if I can make it.  You couldn’t hire me to stay in Boston an hour longer than I have to.”

Silence for a time until Blount broke in upon Gantry’s tapping of the dance-music rhythm with:  “If I can close up a few unfinished business matters and get ready I may go with you, Dick.  Would you mind?”

“Yes; I should mind so much that I’d willingly miss a train or so and worry out a few more of the chilly Boston hours rather than lose the chance of having you along.”

“That is good of you, I’m sure.  I should bore myself to death if I had to travel alone.”

Blount’s rejoinder might have passed for a mere friendly commonplace if it had not been for the rather curiously worded telegram.  But it was a goodly portion of Gantry’s business in life to put two and two together, and that phrase in the senator’s message about a woman’s apron-string interested him.  Moreover, it was subtly suggestive.

“Ever meet your father’s—­er—­the present Mrs. Blount, Evan?” he asked.

“No.”  Blount may have been Western-born, but the chilling discouragement he could crowd into the two-letter negation spoke eloquently of his Eastern training.

Gantry was rebuffed but not disheartened.

“She is a mighty fine woman,” he ventured.

“So I have been given to understand.”  This time Blount’s reply was icy.  But now Gantry’s eyes were twinkling and he pressed his advantage.

“You’ll have to reckon pretty definitely with her if you go out to the greasewood country, Evan.  Next to your father, she is the court of last resort; indeed, there are a good many people who insist that she is the court—­the power behind the throne, you know.”