on the other
side of the Cascades."

CHAPTER II

THE QUESTION

Sometime, high on a mountain slope, a cross current of air, or perhaps a
tremor of the surface occasioned far off, starts the small snow-cap, that
sliding, halting, impelled forward again, always accumulating, gathering
momentum, finally becomes the irresistible avalanche. So Marcia Feversham,
the following morning, gave the first slight impetus to the question that
eventually menaced Tisdale with swift destruction. She was not taking the
early train with her husband; she desired to break the long journey and,
after the season in the north, prolong the visit with her relatives in
Seattle. The delegate had left her sleeping, but when he had finished the
light breakfast served him alone in the Morganstein dining-room and
hurried out to the waiting limousine, to his surprise he found her in the
car. "I am going down to see you away," she explained; "this salt breeze
with the morning tide is so delightfully fresh."

There was no archness in her glance; her humor was wholly masculine. A
firm mouthy brilliant, dark eyes, the heavy Morganstein brows that met
over the high nose, gave weight and intensity to anything she said. Her
husband, in coaching her for the coming campaign at Washington, had told
her earnestness was her strong suit; that her deep, deliberate voice was
her best card, but she held in her eyes, unquestionably, both bowers.

"Delightful of you, I am sure," he answered, taking the seat beside her,
with his for-the-public smile, "but I give credit to the air; you are
looking as brilliant at this outrageous hour as you would on your way to
an afternoon at bridge." Then, the chauffeur having closed the door and
taken his place in the machine, Feversham turned a little to scrutinize
her face.

"Now, my lady," he asked, "to what do I owe the pleasure?"

"Mr. Tisdale," she answered directly. "Of course you must see now, even if
I do contrive to meet him through Frederic, as you suggested, and manage
to see him frequently; even if I find out what he means to say in those
coal reports, when it comes to influence, I won't have the weight of a
feather. No woman could. He is made of iron, and his principles were cast
in the mold."

"Every man has his vulnerable point, and I can trust you to find Hollis
Tisdale's." The delegate paused an instant, still regarding his wife's
face, frowning a little, yet not without humor, then said: "But you hav