His chamberlain, Mr. Bijah Bixby, sits on the other side of the Honorable Heth, and performs the presentation of Mr. Wetherell.  But Mr. Sutton, as becomes a man of high position, says little after he has rebuked the waitress, and presently departs with a carefully chosen toothpick; whereupon Mr. Bixby moves into the vacant seat—­not to Mr. Wetherell’s unqualified delight.

“I’ve knowed him ever sense we was boys,” said Mr. Bixby; “you saw how intimate we was.  When he wants a thing done, he says, ’Bije, you go out and get ’em.’  Never counts the cost.  He was nice to you—­wahn’t he, Will?” And then Mr. Bixby leaned over and whispered in Mr. Wetherell’s ear; “He knows—­you understand—­he knows.”

“Knows what?” demanded Mr. Wetherell.

Mr. Bixby gave him another admiring look.

“Knows you didn’t come down here with Jethro jest to see the sights.”

At this instant the talk in the dining room fell flat, and looking up William Wetherell perceived a portly, rubicund man of middle age being shown to his seat by the headwaiter.  The gentleman wore a great, glittering diamond in his shirt, and a watch chain that contained much fine gold.  But the real cause of the silence was plainly in the young woman who walked beside him, and whose effective entrance argued no little practice and experience.  She was of a type that catches the eye involuntarily and holds it,—­tall, well-rounded, fresh-complexioned, with heavy coils of shimmering gold hair.  Her pawn, which was far from unbecoming, was in keeping with those gifts with which nature had endowed her.  She carried her head high, and bestowed swift and evidently fatal glances to right and left during her progress through the room.  Mr. Bixby’s voice roused the storekeeper from this contemplation of the beauty.

“That’s Alvy Hopkins of Gosport and his daughter.  Fine gal, hain’t she?  Ever sense she come down here t’other day she’s stirred up more turmoil than any railroad bill I ever seed.  She was most suffocated at the governor’s ball with fellers tryin’ to get dances—­some of ’em old fellers, too.  And you understand about Alvy?”

“What about him?”

“Alvy says he’s a-goin’ to be the next governor, or fail up.”  Mr. Bixby’s voice sank to a whisper, and he spoke into Mr. Wetherell’s ear.  “Alvy says he has twenty-five thousand dollars to put in if necessary.  I’ll introduce you to him, Will,” he added meaningly.  “Guess you can help him some—­you understand?”

“Mr. Bixby!” cried Mr. Wetherell, putting down his knife and fork.

“There!” said Mr. Bixby, reassuringly; “’twon’t be no bother.  I know him as well as I do you—­call each other by our given names.  Guess I was the first man he sent for last spring.  He knows I go through all them river towns.  He says, ’Bije, you get ’em.’  I understood.”

William Wetherell began to realize the futility of trying to convince Mr. Bixby of his innocence in political matters, and glanced at Jethro.