But Lawler had refused, because previously to their visits he had given his word to York Falkner.  And he had championed Falkner’s candidacy with such energy and enthusiasm that in the end—­on the day of the convention—­his name was better known than that of his candidate.  And at the last minute the convention was in danger of stampeding to him, threatening to nominate him despite his protests.  He had been forced to tell them plainly that he would not serve, if nominated and elected, because he had pledged his support to Falkner.  And Falkner, at home in a distant county while the convention was in session, remained silent, refusing to answer the frantic requests that he withdraw in favor of Lawler.  That attitude had defeated Falkner, as his loyalty to his friend had increased his popularity.

Now, pausing before the door of the governor’s office, Lawler was aware of the completeness of the sacrifice he had made for Falkner.  His face paled, his eyes glowed, and a thrill ran over him.  At this moment—­if he had not made the sacrifice—­he might have been sitting in the governor’s office, listening to Caldwell, or Sigmund, or others from his own section,—­perhaps from other sections of the state—­advising them, seeking to help them.  For one thing, Morgan Hatfield would not have been his railroad commissioner!

As it was, he was going to enter the governor’s office as a mere petitioner, not sure of his reception—­for Perry Haughton had beaten Falkner, and owed Lawler nothing.  Indeed, after his election, Haughton had referred sarcastically to Lawler.

When Lawler found himself in the presence of the governor he was in a grimly humorous mood.  For despite the sarcastic flings he had directed at Lawler, the governor ponderously arose from a big chair at his desk and advanced to meet him, a hand outstretched.

“Hello, Lawler!” he said; “glad to see you.  Where have you been keeping yourself?”

Lawler shook the governor’s hand, not replying to the effusive greeting.  Lawler smiled, though, and perhaps the governor saw in the smile an answer to his question.  He led Lawler to a chair, and returned to his own, where he sat, leaning back, watching his visitor with a speculative gaze.

Perry Haughton was a big, florid man with sleek, smooth manners, a bland smile and an engaging eye, which held a deep gleam of insincerity.  The governor posed as a genial, generous, broad-minded public official—­and it had been upon that reputation that he had been nominated and elected—­but the geniality had been adopted for political reasons.  The real man was an arrogant autocrat, lusting for power and wealth.

He disliked Lawler—­feared him.  Also, since the convention he had felt vindictive toward Lawler, for Lawler had offended him by his tenacious championship of Falkner.  He had almost lost the nomination through Lawler’s efforts.

“Been in town long?” he queried.

“Just long enough to have a talk with Hatfield.”