Tictocq bowed.

“Am I to have carte blanche to question every person connected with the hotel?”

“The proprietor has already been spoken to.  Everything and everybody is at your service.”

Tictocq consulted his watch.

“Come to this room to-morrow afternoon at 6 o’clock with the landlord, the Populist Candidate, and any other witnesses elected from both parties, and I will return the socks.”

“Bien, Monsieur; schlafen sie wohl.”

“Au revoir.”

The Chairman of the Democratic Executive Committee, Platform No.2, bowed courteously and withdrew.

* * * * * *

Tictocq sent for the bell boy.

“Did you go to room 76 last night?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Who was there?”

“An old hayseed what come on the 7:25.”

“What did he want?”

“The bouncer.”

“What for?”

“To put the light out.”

“Did you take anything while in the room?”

“No, he didn’t ask me.”

“What is your name?”

“Jim.”

“You can go.”

CHAPTER II

The drawing-rooms of one of the most magnificent private residences in Austin are a blaze of lights.  Carriages line the streets in front, and from gate to doorway is spread a velvet carpet, on which the delicate feet of the guests may tread.

The occasion is the entree into society of one of the fairest buds in the City of the Violet Crown.  The rooms are filled with the culture, the beauty, the youth and fashion of society.  Austin society is acknowledged to be the wittiest, the most select, and the highest bred to be found southwest of Kansas City.

Mrs. Rutabaga St. Vitus, the hostess, is accustomed to draw around her a circle of talent, and beauty, rarely equalled anywhere.  Her evenings come nearer approaching the dignity of a salon than any occasion, except, perhaps, a Tony Faust and Marguerite reception at the Iron Front.

Miss St. Vitus, whose advent into society’s maze was heralded by such an auspicious display of hospitality, is a slender brunette, with large, lustrous eyes, a winning smile, and a charming ingenue manner.  She wears a china silk, cut princesse, with diamond ornaments, and a couple of towels inserted in the back to conceal prominence of shoulder blades.  She is chatting easily and naturally on a plush covered tete-a-tete with Harold St. Clair, the agent for a Minneapolis pants company.  Her friend and schoolmate, Elsie Hicks, who married three drummers in one day, a week or two before, and won a wager of two dozen bottles of Budweiser from the handsome and talented young hack-driver, Bum Smithers, is promenading in and out the low French windows with Ethelbert Windup, the popular young candidate for hide inspector, whose name is familiar to every one who reads police court reports.