It was all very well (so said the first spokesman) to pluck a few feathers from a bird so bountifully endowed as the Honourable Adam, but were not two gentlemen who should be nameless carrying the joke a little too far?  Mr. Vane unquestionably realized what he was doing, but—­was it not almost time to call in the two gentlemen and—­and come to some understanding?

“Gentlemen,” said the Honourable Hilary, apparently unmoved, “I have not seen Mr. Bascom or Mr. Botcher since the sixteenth day of August, and I do not intend to.”

Some clearing of throats followed this ominous declaration,—­and a painful silence.  The thing must be said and who would say it?  Senator Whitredge was the hero.

Mr. Thomas Gaylord has just entered the convention hall, and is said to be about to nominate—­a dark horse.  The moment was favourable, the convention demoralized, and at least one hundred delegates had left the hall. (How about the last ballot, Senator, which showed 1011?)

The Honourable Hilary rose abruptly, closed the door to shut out the noise, and turned and looked Mr. Whitredge in the eye.

“Who is the dark horse?” he demanded.

The members of the conference coughed again, looked at each other, and there was a silence.  For some inexplicable reason, nobody cared to mention the name of Austen Vane.

The Honourable Hilary pointed at the basswood table.

“Senator,” he said, “I understand you have been telephoning Mr. Flint.  Have you got orders to sit down there?”

“My dear sir,” said the Senator, “you misunderstand me.”

“Have you got orders to sit down there?” Mr. Vane repeated.

“No,” answered the Senator, “Mr. Flint’s confidence in you—­”

The Honourable Hilary sat down again, and at that instant the door was suddenly flung open by Postmaster Bill Fleeting of Brampton, his genial face aflame with excitement and streaming with perspiration.  Forgotten, in this moment, is senatorial courtesy and respect for the powers of the feudal system.

“Say, boys,” he cried, “Putnam County’s voting, and there’s be’n no nomination and ain’t likely to be.  Jim Scudder, the station-master at Wye, is here on credentials, and he says for sure the thing’s fizzled out, and Tom Gaylord’s left the hall!”

Again a silence, save for the high hum let in through the open doorway.  The members of the conference stared at the Honourable Hilary, who seemed to have forgotten their presence; for he had moved his chair to the window, and was gazing out over the roofs at the fast-fading red in the western sky.

An hour later, when the room was in darkness save for the bar of light that streamed in from the platform chandelier, Senator Whitredge entered.

“Hilary!” he said.

There was no answer.  Mr. Whitredge felt in his pocket for a match, struck it, and lighted the single jet over the basswood table.  Mr. Vane still sat by the window.  The senator turned and closed the door, and read from a paper in his hand; so used was he to formality that he read it formally, yet with a feeling of intense relief, of deference, of apology.