ed one walked
out in rubber-heeled silence he turned savagely upon his campaign
manager.

"Well, Doolittle?" he demanded.

"I just want to ask you, George----"

George exploded. "Oh, you just want to ask me! Well, everything you want
to ask me is answered in that paper. Read it!"

Doolittle took the copy of the _Sentinel_ which was thrust into his
hands. George watched him with triumphant grimness, awaiting the effect
of the bomb about to explode in the other's face. Mr. Doolittle unfolded
the _Sentinel_--looked it slowly through--then raised his eyes
to George. His face seemed somewhat puzzled, but otherwise it was
overspread with that sympathetic concern which, as much as his hearse
and his folding-chairs, was a part of his professional equipment.

"Why, George. I don't just get what you're driving at."

Forgetting that he was holding several copies of the Sentinel, George
dropped them all upon the floor and seized the paper from Mr. Doolittle.
He glanced swiftly over the first page--and experienced the highest
voltage shock of his young public career. Feverishly he skimmed the
remaining pages. But of all that he had poured out in the office of the
_Sentinel_, not one word was in print.

Automatically clutching the paper in a hand that fell to his side, he
stared blankly at his campaign manager. Mr. Doolittle gazed back with
his air of sympathetic concern, bewildered questioning in his eyes. And
for a space, despite the increasing uproar down in the street, there was
a most perfect silence in the inner office of Remington and Evans.

Before either of the two men could speak, the door was violently flung
open and Martin Jaffry appeared. His clothing was disarranged, his
manner agitated--in striking contrast to the dapper and composed
appearance usual to that middle-aged little gentleman.

"George," he panted, "heard anything about Genevieve?"

"She's safe. Penny's got charge of her by this time."

His answer was almost mechanical.

"Thank God!" Uncle Martin collapsed in one of the office chairs.
"Mind--if sit here minute--get my breath."

George did not reply, for he had not heard. He was gazing steadily at
Mr. Doolittle; some great, but as yet shapeless, force was surging up
dazingly within him. But he somehow held himself in control.

"Well, Doolittle," he demanded, "you said you came to ask something."

Mr. Doolittle's manner was still propitiatingly bland. "I'll mention
something else first, Georg