h he had interrupted; namely, the Republican candidates for the
twenty senatorial districts of the State.

On its way back to Leith the red motor paused in front of Mr. Ball's
store, and that gentleman was summoned in the usual manner.

"Do you see this Braden once in a while?" Mr. Crewe demanded.

Mr. Ball looked knowing.

"Tell him I want to have a talk with him," said Mr. Crewe. "I've been to
see Mr. Flint, and I think matters can be arranged. And mind you, no word
about this, Ball."

"I guess I understand a thing or two," said Mr. Ball. "Trust me to handle
it."

Two days later, as Mr. Crewe was seated in his study, his man entered and
stood respectfully waiting for the time when he should look up from his
book.

"Well, what is it now, Waters?"

"If you please, sir," said the man, "a strange message has come over the
telephone just now that you were to be in room number twelve of the
Ripton House to-morrow at ten o'clock. They wouldn't give any name, sir,"
added the dignified Waters, who, to tell the truth, was somewhat
outraged, nor tell where they telephoned from. But it was a man's voice,
sir."

"All right," said Mr. Crewe.

He spent much of the afternoon and evening debating whether or not his
dignity would permit him to go. But he ordered the motor at half-past
nine, and at ten o'clock precisely the clerk at the Ripton House was
bowing to him and handing him, deferentially, a dripping pen.

"Where's room number twelve?" said the direct Mr. Crewe.

"Oh," said the clerk, and possessing a full share of the worldly wisdom
of his calling, he smiled broadly. "I guess you'll find him up there, Mr.
Crewe. Front, show the gentleman to number twelve."

The hall boy knocked on the door of number twelve.

"C--come in," said a voice. "Come in."

Mr. Crewe entered, the hall boy closed the door, and he found himself
face to face with a comfortable, smooth-faced man seated with great
placidity on a rocking-chair in the centre of the room, between the bed
and the marble-topped table: a man to whom, evidently, a rich abundance
of thought was sufficient company, for he had neither newspaper nor book.
He rose in a leisurely fashion, and seemed the very essence of the benign
as he stretched forth his hand.

"I'm Mr. Crewe," the owner of that name proclaimed, accepting the hand
with no exaggeration of cordiality. The situation jarred on him a trifle.

"I know. Seed you on the road once or twice. How be you?"

M