Thatcher had reached Julesburg.  When Thatcher was at Omaha, Wiles was already in St. Louis; and as the Pullman car containing the hero of the “Blue Mass” mine rolled into Chicago, Wiles was already walking the streets of the national capital.  Nevertheless, he had time en route to sink in the waters of the North Platte, with many expressions of disgust, the little black portmanteau belonging to Thatcher, containing his dressing case, a few unimportant letters, and an extra shirt, to wonder why simple men did not travel with their important documents and valuables, and to set on foot some prudent and cautious inquiries regarding his own lost carpet bag and its important contents.

But for these trifles he had every reason to be satisfied with the progress of his plans.  “It’s all right,” said Mrs. Hopkinson merrily; “while you and Gashwiler have been working with your ‘stock,’ and treating the whole world as if it could be bribed, I’ve done more with that earnest, self-believing, self-deceiving, and perfectly pathetic Roscommon than all you fellows put together.  Why, I’ve told his pitiful story, and drawn tears from the eyes of Senators and Cabinet Ministers.  More than that, I’ve introduced him into society, put him in a dress coat,—­such a figure!—­and you know how the best folk worship everything that is outre as the sincere thing.  I’ve made him a complete success.  Why, only the other night, when Senator Misnancy and Judge Fitzdawdle were here, after making him tell his story,—­which you know I think he really believes,—­I sang ‘There came to the beach a poor Exile of Erin,’ and my husband told me afterwards it was worth at least a dozen votes.”

“But about this rival of yours,—­this niece of Garcia’s?”

“Another of your blunders; you men know nothing of women.  Firstly, she’s a swarthy little brunette, with dots for eyes; and strides like a man, dresses like a dowdy, don’t wear stays, and has no style.  Then, she’s a single woman, and alone; and, although she affects to be an artist, and has Bohemian ways, don’t you see she can’t go into society without a chaperon or somebody to go with her?  Nonsense.”

“But,” persisted Wiles, “she must have some power; there’s Judge Mason and Senator Peabody, who are constantly talking about her; and Dinwiddie of Virginia escorted her through the Capitol the other day.”

Mistress Hopkinson laughed.  “Mason and Peabody aspire to be thought literary and artistic, and Dinwiddie wanted to pique me!”

“But Thatcher is no fool—­”

“Is Thatcher a lady’s man?” queried the lady suddenly.

“Hardly, I should say,” responded Wiles.  “He pretends to be absorbed in his swindle and devoted to his mine; and I don’t think that even you—­” he stopped with a slight sneer.

“There, you are misunderstanding me again, and, what is worse, you are misunderstanding your case.  Thatcher is pleased with her because he has probably seen no one else.  Wait till he comes to Washington and has an opportunity for comparison;” and she cast a frank glance at her mirror, where Wiles, with a sardonic bow, left her standing.