Fleetwood shrugged his shoulders and was silent. Shackwell, from a
distant seat, uttered a faint protesting sound, but no one heeded him.
The Governor stood squarely before Fleetwood, his hands in his pockets.
"It _is_ true, then?" he demanded.

"What is true?"

"What the 'Spy' means to say--that you bought my wife's influence to
get your first appointment."

In the silence Shackwell started suddenly to his feet. A sound of
carriage-wheels had disturbed the quiet street. They paused and then
rolled up the semicircle to the door of the Executive Mansion.

"John!" Shackwell warned him.

The Governor turned impatiently; there was the sound of a servant's
steps in the hall, followed by the opening and closing of the outer
door.

"Your wife--Mrs. Mornway!" Shackwell cried.

Another step, accompanied by a soft rustle of skirts, was advancing
toward the library.

"My wife? Let her come!" said the Governor.

V

She stood before them in her bright evening dress, with an arrested
brilliancy of aspect like the sparkle of a fountain suddenly caught in
ice. Her look moved rapidly from one to the other; then she came
forward, while Shackwell slipped behind her to close the door.

"What has happened?" she said.

Shackwell began to speak, but the Governor interposed calmly:

"Fleetwood has come to tell me that he does not wish to remain in
office."

"Ah!" she murmured.

There was another silence. Fleetwood broke it by saying: "It is getting
late. If you want to see me to-morrow--"

The Governor looked from his face to Ella's. "Yes; go now," he said.

Shackwell moved in Fleetwood's wake to the door. Mrs. Mornway stood
with her head high, smiling slightly. She shook hands with each of the
men in turn; then she moved toward the sofa and laid aside her shining
cloak. All her gestures were calm and noble, but as she raised her hand
to unclasp the cloak her husband uttered a sudden exclamation.

"Where did you get that bracelet? I don't remember it."

"This?" She looked at him with astonishment. "It belonged to my mother.
I don't often wear it."

"Ah--I shall suspect everything now," he groaned.

He turned away and flung himself with bowed head in the chair behind
his writing-table. He wanted to collect himself, to question her, to
get to the bottom of the hideous abyss over which his imagination hung.
But what was the use? What did the facts matter? He had only to put his
memories together--they led him strai