pon another street, which, beyond all doubt, the editor had
used.

Baffled, but not without resource, he turned again to the newspapers and
rummaged the lists of hotel arrivals for Sprague's unnoteworthy name.
Naturally too obscure for mention! Yet in the same breath it started out
at him from miscellaneous political gossip as one of the day's callers at
the headquarters of a local revolt against the machine. Shelby construed
the visit as a still hunt for funds, and, in the light of his own
financial rebound, meant to have his chuckle from it, should he ever
unhorse the worry by which he was hag-rid. Consulting a city directory,
he set forth on a fagging tramp from hotel to hotel--a quest barren of
result for the excellent reason that Sprague, according to his custom,
had registered at the Reform Club.

Late to bed, and after persistent sheep-counting, much later to sleep,
Shelby woke with the morning far advanced and the hour of his departure
near. It was necessary to eke out his wardrobe with a purchase or two
against the journey with the governor, and between his shopping and his
breakfast, the deliberate talk he had meant to have with Mrs. Hilliard
bade fair to dwindle to a handshake. As the morning brought no grounds
for optimism, he was not altogether sorry that the interview must be
short; indeed, by daylight his own necessity seemed the more pressing;
but he faced his obligations, and prepared himself for the role of Sturdy
Oak to Mrs. Hilliard's Clinging Vine. His astonishment, therefore, was
doubly great when he learned that the Vine had developed a backbone of
its own, and left the hotel, bag and baggage, upward of an hour ago.

Being a practical man, Shelby promptly made friends with the baggage
agent, who recalled that the "blond lady's" belongings had been forwarded
to the Grand Central Station,--Shelby's own destination,--whose
waiting-hall the perplexed candidate was shortly scouring in pursuit.
The sequel was unexpected. He did not find Mrs. Hilliard, but he did
stumble fairly into the arms of Volney Sprague.

Startled, but outwardly self-assured, he half offered his hand.

The editor gave him a perfunctory good morning, but his own right hand
made no movement to free itself from the magazine whose leaves he had
been turning at the news-stand.

Shelby slid his extended fingers forward haphazard to a learned
periodical, which fell open to a discussion of cuneiform inscriptions.

"Are you bo