Mr. Flint stopped in the middle of the floor.

“And you tell me he has not done these things?”

“Suppose I did tell you so,” said Victoria, “would you believe me?  I have no reason to think that you would.  I am your daughter, I have been your most intimate companion, and I had the right to think that you should have formed some estimate of my character.  Suppose I told you that Austen Vane has avoided me, that he would not utter a word against you or in favour of himself?  Suppose I told you that I, your daughter, thought there might be two sides to the political question that is agitating you, and wished in fairness to hear the other side, as I intended to tell you when you were less busy?  Suppose I told you that Austen Vane was the soul of honour, that he saw your side and presented it as ably as you have presented it? that he had refrained in many matters which might have been of advantage to him—­although I did not hear of them from him—­on account of his father?  Would you believe me?”

“And suppose I told you,” cried Mr. Flint—­so firmly fastened on him was the long habit of years of talking another down, “suppose I told you that this was the most astute and the craftiest course he could take?  I’ve always credited him with brains.  Suppose I told you that he was intriguing now, as he has been all along, to obtain the nomination for the governorship?  Would you believe me?”

“No,” answered Victoria, quietly.

Mr. Flint went to the lamp, unrolled the ball of telegrams, seized one and crossed the room quickly, and held it out to her.  His hand shook a little.

“Read that!” he said.

She read it:  “Estimate that more than half of delegates from this section pledged to Henderson will go to Austen Vane when signal is given in convention.  Am told on credible authority same is true of other sections, including many of Hunt’s men and Crewe’s.  This is the result of quiet but persistent political work I spoke about.  Billings.”

She handed the telegram back to her father in silence.  “Do you believe it now?” he demanded exultantly.

“Who is the man whose name is signed to that message?” she asked.

Mr. Flint eyed her narrowly.

“What difference does that make?” he demanded.

“None,” said Victoria.  But a vision of Mr. Billings rose before her.  He had been pointed out to her as the man who had opposed Austen in the Meader suit.  “If the bishop of the diocese signed it, I would not believe that Austen Vane had anything to do with the matter.”

“Ah, you defend him!” cried Mr. Flint.  “I thought so—­I thought so.  I take off my hat to him, he is a cleverer man even than I. His own father, whom he has ruined, comes up here and defends him.”

“Does Hilary Vane defend him?” Victoria asked curiously.

“Yes,” said Mr. Flint, beside himself; “incredible as it may seem, he does.  I have Austen Vane to thank for still another favour—­he is responsible for Hilary’s condition to-day.  He has broken him down—­he has made him an imbecile.  The convention is scarcely thirty-six hours off, and Hilary is about as fit to handle it as—­as Eben Fitch.  Hilary, who never failed me in his life!”