* * * * *

Later, when Everett Brimbecomb was ushered into his office at the capital, the governor was primed with the sympathy that he had gathered from his wife’s letter.

“This is something of a surprise, my dear boy,” he said.  “I did not know you were coming to Albany so soon.”

“I came with a purpose,” replied Everett; “for, as you know, my father is away, and I need your advice in something.”

Vandecar waited for his visitor to proceed.

“Do you see any reason,” Everett stammered, “why two young lawyers should not be friends, even if they have to take opposite sides in a lawsuit?”

“No,” replied the governor slowly.

“Then I’ll lay the whole thing before you, and let you tell me what you think of it.”

“Have a cigar while we talk,” broke in Vandecar, offering Everett his case.

In silence they began to smoke, and both remained quiet until the governor said: 

“Now, explain it to me, please.”

Everett began the story of the children’s running away, as the squatter had told it to him, and of their coming to Horace.  He did not forget to add that he believed Shellington had lied to him the night he came into the dining-room and discovered Fledra and Floyd with the two little animals.  When a shade passed over the governor’s face, Everett quickly noted that he had made a mistake in the drawing of conclusions.

“Don’t be too hasty, Everett,” cautioned Vandecar, shaking an ash deliberately from his cigar.  “Horace is the soul of truth.  If he did not tell it to you, he had good reasons.”

Brimbecomb frowned.  He could have bitten his tongue out for making that misstep.

“That’s so,” he admitted.  “But, ever since last September, Horace, and I might say Ann, too, have drawn more and more away from me.  For my part, I see no good that can come of their relations with squatters.”

“It was the most charitable act I have ever heard of,” replied Vandecar.  “But you are straying from the case.  Do I understand that you have taken up the side of the father?”

“Yes.”

“And that you intend to make a move to return his children to him?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

As Everett looked at the stern, unyielding man before him, his excuse to Mrs. Vandecar seemed tame as it ran through his mind.  The governor’s eyes were scanning him critically, almost dazzling him with their steely gray.  An expression in the steady gaze made him tremble; but he took heart as he thought of the friendship between the governor and his foster father.

“It’s hardly fair to ask me why I took the case, which came to me in a legitimate manner,” said he.  “I can see no reason why the man, although poor, should not have his own children.  Do you?”

It was a pointed question, and Vandecar waived it by saying: 

“There are always circumstances surrounding these things, such as when parents are cruel to their children, which might make it advisable, almost imperative, to take the youngsters away and put them with reputable people.  I think Horace is of the impression that this is true in the present case.”