l promotion, those laws I will enforce!"
In the more conventional tone of every-day politeness, he added: "May I
speak to you outside, Mrs. Earle?"

But, as in silence that lady descended the stairs, the district attorney
seemed to have forgotten what it was he wished to say.

It was not until he had seen his chauffeur arouse himself from
apparently deep slumber and crank the car that he addressed her.

"That girl," he said, "had better go back to bed. My men are all around
this house and, until the police come, will detain her."

He shook the jewelled fingers of Mrs. Earle warmly. "I thank you," he
said; "I know you meant well. I know you wanted to help me, but"--he
shrugged his shoulders--"my duty!"

As he walked down the driveway to his car his shoulders continued to
move.

But Mrs. Earle did not wait to observe this phenomenon. Rid of his
presence, she leaped, rather than ran, up the stairs and threw open the
door of her office.

As she entered, two men followed her. One was a young man who held in
his hand an open note-book, the other was Tim Meehan, of Tammany. The
latter greeted her with a shout.

"We heard everything he said," he cried. His voice rose in torment. "An'
we can't use a word of it! He acted just like we'd oughta knowed he'd
act. He's HONEST! He's so damned honest he ain't human; he's a--gilded
saint!"

Mrs. Earle did not heed him. On her knees she was tossing to the floor
the contents of the waste-paper basket. From them she snatched a piece
of crumpled paper.

"Shut up!" she shouted. "Listen! His chauffeur brought him this." In a
voice that quivered with indignation, that sobbed with anger, she read
aloud:

"'As directed by your note from the window, I went to the booth
and called up Mrs. Cutler's house and got herself on the phone. Your
brother-in-law lunched at home to-day with her and the children and they
are now going to the Hippodrome.

"Stop, look, and listen! Back of the bar I see two men in a room, but
they did not see me. One is Tim Meehan, the other is a stenographer.
He is taking notes. Each of them has on the ear-muffs of a dictagraph.
Looks like you'd better watch your step and not say nothing you don't
want Tammany to print.'" The voice of Mrs. Earle rose in a shrill
shriek.

"Him--a gilded saint?" she screamed; "you big stiff! He knew he was
talking into a dictagraph all the time, and he double-crossed us!"

End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Frame