Although one of the most exciting political battles ever fought is fast coming to its climax, and a now jubilant Mr. Crewe is contesting every foot of ground in the State with the determination and pertinacity which make him a marked man; although the convention wherein his fate will be decided is now but a few days distant, and everything has been done to secure a victory which mortal man can do, let us follow Hilary Vane to Fairview.  Not that Hilary has been idle.  The “Book of Arguments” is exhausted, and the chiefs and the captains have been to Ripton, and received their final orders, but more than one has gone back to his fief with the vision of a changed Hilary who has puzzled them.  Rumours have been in the air that the harmony between the Source of Power and the Distribution of Power is not as complete as it once was.  Certainly, Hilary Vane is not the man he was—­although this must not even be whispered.  Senator Whitredge had told—­but never mind that.  In the old days an order was an order; there were no rebels then.  In the old days there was no wavering and rescinding, and if the chief counsel told you, with brevity, to do a thing, you went and did it straightway, with the knowledge that it was the best thing to do.  Hilary Vane had aged suddenly, and it occurred for the first time to many that, in this utilitarian world, old blood must be superseded by young blood.

Two days before the convention, immediately after taking dinner at the Ripton House with Mr. Nat Billings, Hilary Vane, in response to a summons, drove up to Fairview.  One driving behind him would have observed that the Honourable Hilary’s horse took his own gaits, and that the reins, most of the time, drooped listlessly on his quarters.  A September stillness was in the air, a September purple clothed the distant hills, but to Hilary the glories of the day were as things non-existent.  Even the groom at Fairview, who took his horse, glanced back at him with a peculiar expression as he stood for a moment on the steps with a hesitancy the man had never before remarked.

In the meantime Mr. Flint, with a pile of letters in a special basket on the edge of his desk, was awaiting his counsel; the president of the Northeastern was pacing his room, as was his wont when his activities were for a moment curbed, or when he had something on his mind; and every few moments he would glance towards his mantel at the clock which was set to railroad time.  In past days he had never known Hilary Vane to be a moment late to an appointment.  The door was open, and five and twenty minutes had passed the hour before he saw the lawyer in the doorway.  Mr. Flint was a man of such preoccupation of mind that he was not likely to be struck by any change there might have been in his counsel’s appearance.

“It’s half-past three,” he said.

Hilary entered, and sat down beside the window.

“You mean that I’m late,” he replied.

“I’ve got some engineers coming here in less than an hour,” said Mr. Flint.