The counter went on counting aloud and dealing down the papers as he counted.  One, two, three, four, and straight on up to ten for Therne, when he paused to examine a paper, then “One for Colford.”  Then, in rapid successful, “Five, ten, fifteen for Therne.”

Now the hum of conversation died away, for it was felt that this was becoming interesting.  Of course it was practically impossible that I should win, for there were but fourteen papers left, and to do so I must secure eleven of them!

“Sixteen for Therne,” went on the counter, “seventeen, eighteen, nineteen, twenty.”

Now the excitement grew intense, for if the run held in two more votes I should tie.  Every eye was fixed upon the counter’s hand.

To the right and left of him on the table were two little piles of voting papers.  The pile to the right was the property of Colford, the pile to the left was sacred to Therne.  The paper was unfolded and glanced at, then up went the hand and down floated the fateful sheet on to the left-hand pile.  “Twenty-one for Therne.”  Again the process was repeated, and again the left-hand pile was increased.  “Twenty-two for Therne.”

“By heaven! you’ve tied him,” gasped Stephen Strong.

There were but seven papers left, and the candidate who secured four of them would be the winner of the election.

“Twenty-three for Therne, twenty-four, twenty-five”—­a silence in which you could hear the breath of other men and the beating of your own heart.

“Twenty-six for Therne, twenty-seven, twenty-eight, twenty-nine, all for Therne.”

Then, bursting from the lips of Stephen Strong, a shrill hoarse cry, more like the cry of a beast than that of a man, and the words, “By God! we’ve won.  The A.V.’s have done it.  Bravo the A.V.’s!”

“Silence!” said the Mayor, bringing his fist down upon the table, but so far as Stephen Strong was concerned, the order was superfluous, for suddenly his face flushed, then turned a dreadful ashen grey, and down he sank upon the floor.  As I leant over him and began to loosen his collar, I heard the Conservative agent say in strident tones:—­

“There is some mistake, there must be some mistake.  It is almost impossible that Dr. Therne can have polled twenty-nine votes in succession.  On behalf of Sir Thomas Colford, I demand a recount.”

“Certainly,” answered some official, “let it be begun at once.”

In that ceremony I took no part; indeed, I spent the next two hours, with the help of another doctor, trying to restore consciousness to Stephen Strong in a little room that opened off the town-hall.  Within half an hour Mrs. Strong arrived.

“He still breathes,” I said in answer to her questioning glance.

Then the poor little woman sat herself down upon the edge of a chair, clasped her hands and said, “If the Lord wills it, dear Stephen will live; and if the Lord wills it, he will die.”