such palpable fraud.  What can be done?  Call the roll!  How in blazes can you call the roll when you don’t know who’s here?  Messrs. Jane, Botcher, Bascom, and Fleming are not disturbed, and improve their time.  Watling and Tooting rush to the bridal suite, and rush back again to demand justice.  General Doby mingles his tears with theirs, and somebody calls him a jellyfish.  He does not resent it.  Friction makes the air hotter and hotter—­Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego would scarce enter into this furnace,—­and General Doby has a large damp spot on his back as he pounds and pounds and pounds until we are off again on the third ballot.  No dinner, and three-thirty P.M.!  Two delegates have fainted, but the essential parts of them—­the credentials—­are left behind.

Four-forty, whispering again, and the gavel drops.

   The Honourable Giles Henderson of Kingston has . . 412
   The Honourable Humphrey Crewe of Leith has . . . 325
   The Honourable Adam B. Hunt of Edmundton has. . . 250
   And there is no choice on the third ballot!

Thirteen delegates are actually missing this time.  Scour the town!  And now even the newspaper adjectives describing the scene have given out.  A persistent and terrifying rumour goes the rounds, where’s Tom Gaylord?  Somebody said he was in the hall a moment ago, on a Ripton credential.  If so, he’s gone out again—­gone out to consult the dark horse, who is in town, somewhere.  Another ominous sign:  Mr. Redbrook, Mr. Widgeon of Hull, and the other rural delegates who have been voting for the People’s Champion, and who have not been observed in friendly conversation with anybody at all, now have their heads together.  Mr. Billings goes sauntering by, but cannot hear what they are saying.  Something must be done, and right away, and the knowing metropolitan reporters are winking at each other and declaring darkly that a sensation is about to turn up.

Where is Hilary Vane?  Doesn’t he realize the danger?  Or—­traitorous thought!—­doesn’t he care?  To see his son nominated would be a singular revenge for the indignities which are said to have been heaped upon him.  Does Hilary Vane, the strong man of the State, merely sit at the keyboard, powerless, while the tempest itself shakes from the organ a new and terrible music?  Nearly, six hours he has sat at the basswood table, while senators, congressmen, feudal chiefs, and even Chairman Doby himself flit in and out, whisper in his ear, set papers before him, and figures and problems, and telegrams from highest authority.  He merely nods his head, says a word now and then, or holds his peace.  Does he know what he’s about?  If they had not heard things concerning his health,—­and other things,—­they would still feel safe.  He seems the only calm man to be found in the hall—­but is the calm aberration?