closed behind them, "I won't keep
you long. I didn't come down here to plead with you to abandon what you
believe to be your duty, because I know that would be useless. I have had
a talk with Dr. Tredway," he added gently, "and I realize that you are
risking your life. If I could take you back to Ripton I would, but I know
that I cannot. I see your point of view, and if I were in your place I
should do the same thing. I only wanted to tell you this--" Austen's
voice caught a little, "if--anything should happen, I shall be at Mrs.
Peasley's on Maple Street, opposite the Duncan house." He laid his hand
for an instant, in the old familiar way, on Hilary's shoulder, and looked
down into the older man's face. It may have been that Hilary's lips
trembled a little. "I--I'll see you later, Judge, when it's all over.
Good luck to you."

He turned slowly, went to the door and opened it, gave one glance at the
motionless figure in the chair, and went out. He did not hear the voice
that called his name, for the door had shut.

Mr. Ridout and Mr. Manning were talking together in low tones at the head
of the stairs. It was the lawyer who accosted Austen.

"The old gentleman don't seem to be quite himself, Austen. Don't seem
well. You ought to hold him in he can't work as hard as he used to."

"I think you'll find, Mr. Ridout," answered Austen, deliberately, "that
he'll perform what's required of him with his usual efficiency."

Mr. Ridout followed Austen's figure with his eyes until he was hidden by
a turn of the stairs. Then he whistled.

"I can't make that fellow out," he exclaimed. "Never could. All I know is
that if Hilary Vane pulls us through this mess, in the shape he's in,
it'll be a miracle.

"His mind seems sound enough to-day--but he's lost his grip, I tell you.
I don't wonder Flint's beside himself. Here's Adam Hunt with both feet in
the trough, and no more chance of the nomination than I have, and Bascom
and Botcher teasing him on, and he's got enough votes with Crewe to lock
up that convention for a dark horse. And who's the dark horse?"

Mr. Manning, who was a silent man, pointed with his thumb in the
direction Austen had taken.

"Hilary Vane's own son," said Mr. Ridout, voicing the gesture; "they tell
me that Tom Gaylord's done some pretty slick work. Now I leave it to you,
Manning, if that isn't a mess!"

At this moment the conversation was interrupted by the appearance on the
stairway of the impressive f