ately, commenting on the office as he
did so. He even strolled through the library to the open door of
Bassett's private room beyond. The map of Indiana suspended above
Bassett's desk interested him and he stood leaning on his stick and
surveying it. There was something the least bit insinuating in his
manner. The room, the map, the fact that Morton Bassett of Fraserville
had, so to speak, planted a vedette in the heart of the capital, seemed
to afford him mild, cynical amusement. He drew his hand across his
face, twisted his mustache, and took the cigar from his mouth and
examined the end of it with fictitious interest.

"Well," he ejaculated, "damn it all, why not?"

Harwood did not know why not; but a man as rich as Edward Thatcher was
entitled to his vagaries. Thatcher sank into Bassett's swivel chair and
swung round once or twice as though testing it, meanwhile eyeing the
map. Then he tipped himself back comfortably and dropped his hat into
his lap. His grayish brown hair was combed carefully from one side
across the top in an unsuccessful attempt to conceal his baldness.

"I guess Mort wouldn't object to my sitting in his chair provided I
didn't look at that map too much. Who was the chap that the sword hung
over by a hair--Damocles? Well, maybe that's what that map is--it would
smash pretty hard if the whole state fell down on Mort. But Mort knows
just how many voters there are in every township and just how they line
up election morning. There's a lot of brains in Bassett's head; you've
noticed it?"

"It's admitted, I believe, that he's a man of ability," said Dan a
little coldly.

Thatcher grinned.

"You're all right, Harwood. I know you're all right or Mort wouldn't
have put you in here. I'm rather kicking myself that I didn't see you
first."

"Mr. Bassett has given me a chance I'd begun to fear I shouldn't get;
you see I'm studying law here. Mr. Bassett has made that possible. He's
the best friend I ever had."

"That's good. Bassett usually picks winners. From what I hear of you and
what I've seen I think you're all right myself. My boy has taken quite a
great fancy to you."

Thatcher looked at the end of his cigar and waited for Dan to reply.

"I've grown very fond of Allen. He's very unusual; he's full of
surprises."

"That boy," said Thatcher, pointing his cigar at Dan, "is the greatest
boy in the world; but, damn it all, I don't make him out."

"Well, he's different; he's an idealist. I'm