I

CHAPTER X.

WISH," said Malachy Mulverhill, one evening, "that you would join the Atlantic Union Club. You know, some of the most influential members of Cherokee belong to it. In fact, the Cherokee is maintained principally for the purpose of dealing with the people at large. The actual

conserva

tory of politics is the Atlantic Union."

"I shall join, as you ask it," replied Lysander. "In fact, I might say on my own account that this search of the real home of Politics is like the pursuit of the Holy Grail. In my short experience, I have discovered nothing but the undiscoverable mystery."

"Mystery," retorted Malachy, leaning back ponderously in a green chair-"mystery? Now I like that. Who else would have thought of finding mystery in so prosaic a thing as politics. Truly, my lad, you have a wonderful spirit and admiration of the beautiful. It is there where you resemble me to such an extent that I never lose interest in you. Now, your father finds mystery in nothing. He considers statesmanship a mere cornicopia of gold. Otherwise, I think he would be. more active. There is no mystery in a bag of money."

"No, but there is all around the outside

of it."

"That's queer, isn't it?" Malachy looked up with unusual attention. "You see," he proceeded, "it is a man like you that will eventually master the common people, pot, shot and shoe-strings. You will make their devotion dramatic. That is what the people want. They crave excitement. Now, there is no excitement in a plainly draughted, let us say, bill of rights

that is, not ordinarily. I know there are men who could even make a bill of rights dramatic. I once knew a Con

gressman who read the agricultural statistics and had every member of the House bright-eyed."

Entering the Atlantic Union Club that evening, Lysander was fain to remark, "What architectural beauty can be inside red bricks!" On the street, the lamplit marble steps, like a cataract of white flowing out of the dark red entrance, was the only indication of internal grandeur. the first hall, comfort as theatrically lavish. The elevator was a movable reception room. In the upper hall, the very atmosphere was muffled with the softer elegance of art.

In

With consummate grace on the part of Malachy Mulverhill, the two men stood momentarily in the doorway of the Blue Room. Malachy's neck became became shorter and heavier. His gray hair was thick as a cap, and seemed as ashes on the glowing pink head. Even for a middle-aged man, or a younger one, his mouth was delicately outlined. The dent behind his nostrils was deep and proud. Altogether large of build, he lacked height beside his stalwart nephew.

Lysander's entering of the room seemed to bear no relation to the environment nor any of the assembly. It was merely an entering. His compact, wavy, red-bronze hair, slightly enlarging the contour of the head, gave his figurement a touch of color more picturesque than the black of his clothes could ensombre. Soon as his eyes apprised themselves of the prospect, they seemed to be interested with a historic light; and he gazed on the listless shapes of the members talking the talk of nations.

Here, too, was Anthony Bruges, a somewhat shadowy personage to Lysander Mulverhill. Bruges was vague, uncommunicative. He had a way of diverting the most solemn question to one of solemn frivolity or meaninglessness.

"Well, are we ever to vote for Fara

day?" asked the elder Mulverhill in a strong voice.

The three men were sitting close. It was apparent that Bruges was with them because, for the moment, he felt imprisoned by the situation. He graduated the amount of cordiality each man expected of him; and he gave that much. In this case, the courtesies were hazardous. A momentously unpleasant question might leap forth at any moment. With Malachy's first words, the peril was exposed.

"If it were within my knowledge at present, Mr. Mulverhill," he said, "I should immediately take steps towards posing before the country as a prophet."

"Is it not a traditional theory that every political manager pose as a prophet?" Mulverhill responded.

"As well as a theory, it is a duty he owes to himself not to be a false one. He must not endanger his pose at a future crisis."

"Oh, false prophecy is soon forgotten," Malachy informed him.

"But not false promises," broached Lysander.

Bruges eyed him. There was no doubt as to the meaning, except in the mind of Malachy Mulverhill.

"What's that?" asked the latter.

"I mean," said Lysander, "that if, for instance, one should make a fraudulent promise to a man like Faraday and in favor of one Dingley Creed, it would not be forgotten."

face. But then, while we are talking of an honest man-why, here, you devil of devils, I have nothing to say.'

The last remark was addressed to a political reporter.

"Hello, Champ," said Lysander; "how are you?"

"Perfectly ridiculous, as usual.”

Malachy Mulverhill placed his hand on the newspaperman's shoulder. "You have frightened me away," he said. "The younger branch of the family will tell you everything you want to know; if there is that much. Lysander, give him all the information that is good for his soul. Take heed not to overdose him with the truth." He inhaled deeply and walked away. "Mulverhill," began began Champ Moffit, "can you keep a secret ?"

"Are you testing me for points?" asked the other.

my weak

"Why, no; don't you remember when I did that football game I wrote that you did not have any. You don't look as if you had accumulated any since. I am about to impart unto you some graveyard confidences, if you will keep the same way down deep in your shoes."

"I promise."

"Well and good. Do you see that old man over there?"

"That very old man ?"

"Yes; that awfully old man?” "Do you wish me to promise not to tell. anybody that he is alive?"

"Do as you please about that. Do you know him?”

"No; never saw him before. By Jove! That isn't Elisha Hopwood!"

"That's his mortal remains," replied Moffitt. "He used to be six inches taller, say they who say things. Look at him smile. I wonder what could make that shriveled little mouth smile. See that head over the two little folded arms. Skull and cross-bones, hey? And what do you think he is about to do very soon?" "Er-die, maybe."

"No; you are too hasty. He is ready. and able and about to appoint the next President of the United States."

"Did you say 'appoint' or 'disappoint?" "

"I said 'appoint.""

"All right; tell me the rest of the story, in your own words, but slowly, please."

"It is this. Hopwood has in his pocket at the present moment a document relating to this matter. That man will be in control of the nominating convention, and the paper in his pocket is some compact with the future nominee."

"Who is?"

"We shall know to-night. A dark street, a surprise, a muffled curse, your strong arm around the neck of Hopwood's attendant, and I'll attend to the pocket. The paper was delivered in these rooms less than an hour ago. Our city editor has been after something like this for a week. A young space-writer took the story from the political wireless."

"But you know, I have never even served an apprenticeship at this sort of thing. Highway robbery is the technical term for it; is it not?"

"Aren't you interested to the extent of engaging in the enterprise without giving it a name? Only the small souls give names to their acts. That is the very latest philosophy."

"I see you will tempt me in the end, and you would, in the beginning, were I sure that the old man has the document in question. Mere curiosity as to whether your young space-writer is correct in his suspicions would not allure me.”

"Mulverhill, there comes a time in every man's life when he must aid another on the strength of that other's confidenital request. That is the position I request you to occupy now. If your friendship towards me is sufficient to warrant that sort of boon, why, now is the time for it. Let us wait here, and, when they leave, precede the pair to Hopwood's home."

"All right, Moffit, I am your standing army. Command."

CHAPTER XI.

In examining into the vanity of humankind, it would be unfair to disregard the oft-told and as often-forgotten fact that each person is the center of his or her own universe. We naturally are most interested in that about which we know most; which, in everybody's case, is one's own particular self."

And what a worry is this same self! One must feed it when it is hungry, attire it for the styles, study graceful manners for its exhibition, purchase a fine establish

ment in which it is to sleep and to entertain other personalities. tain other personalities. Then, one must amuse it when it is world-weary, find a lover for it when it demands affection. One must furnish it with necessaries and luxuries, lave it and comb it, decorate and perfume it, minister to its five senses and its cravings for the impossible. Small wonder that one grows quite attached to oneself after all this solicitude.

It is the wisdom of philosophers to tell that we should take misfortunes with equanimity. Yet, after beautifying this self in body and mind, it follows that one becomes vexed and confused when aught goes amiss with it. In the case of a love affair, you may consult numerous volumes and columns that demonstrate with what grace the love-smitten, tortured with Cupid's most exquisite aim, should behave after having pulled out the useless shafts in solitude. To manifest the least interest in love is to acknowledge that it is become the vital principle of one's earthly standing. Ambition, friends, happiness, industry, study, fame, all are the hand-maidens of love. When love is wounded, they all weep and are idle.

How soft, in what a tremulous cloud, appears the first apprehension that all is not well with love.

Dost thou behold her there by the window, gazing out and seeing not; in her lap the unread book, her long white fingers trailing over brow as if to wipe away some evil enchantment. The others come and go about the house, and she answers them suddenly.

There is a tall woman, with pale yet strong countenance, eaved eaved with loose masses of black hair. She wears a plain dark blue garment that falls into rigidly symmetrical, almost symbolical lines. There is a terrific steadiness about the eyes; the hands are lithe and gently powerful; they are imaginative hands, as if ready to grasp the handle of steel. She might seem like an angel of the flaming sword, save that her illumination is dark. She is beautiful and tender, yet obviously strong and reliant, in poise and neck and hip.

A few minutes before, Honora Faraday had removed the flashing raiment of the street. A few minutes before, she might have taxed the colors of art for her por

trayal. Now, blue and black and white might have described her; her lips being scarcely red now, sometimes pressed inward between them what was not paled. It is such deep moments that tax the worth of the world. This friend and that, once so companionable, parents, religion, books, all the vaunted merits of existence, alike seem paltry and unconfidential.

She had given her faith to love, and felt faith lovely. Weighted with fashions, the expectations, the guises of the time, perhaps she had not loved with the abandon of the gracious dame. She held that in trust.. Of what was to come she had ample vision. Now that it was possible, she may have deceived herself, and that hers perhaps had been the love of love, and not the love of man, made her falter. It may be true that temperance in love is not love at all.

For who was that god, malignantly beautiful, that now darkened her view with his light? Casual was his enforced manner; casual, oh, so casual. It was surely the covering of a subdued self.

There are many who follow their inclinations as easily as they take the sunny side of the way. There are they, fewer they, who valiantly cherish the mistake that convulses the breast. To confess that love has wandered from the sacred gate of trueness would be horror. Even though should the plighted Anthony Bruges come to her and say, "I no longer love you!" and should the other intone his passion, she could hardly find it hers to answer, "Once I was another's, Lysander; now I love but you." The words were unspeakable.

Still, there are men who woo indomitably. Instinct tells a woman that the right hero is of this blood. He might crush her silent lips with his own lovefrenzied.

This was the most favorable aspect. It could not be more than involuntarily thought of; kept secret from oneself. For there yet was this same Anthony Bruges, that, somewhat sterner of demeanor and strangely cordial, or in cordiality strange, had said nothing more. She had heard he sometimes directed his steps to another woman. She was curious with half-delight.

Twilight was now, twilight, that mid

scene, twilight, low-light, gray-light which one uses to hurry home or dress for the evening drama, that is greater than the performances of day. The world lives at night. Daytime is unmeet for the splendors of civilization. It is fitting that the arts of the world display themselves by artificial light.

She was resplendent at dinner, and had, if not a happy manner, a fairly good substitute therefor. It is demanded that beauty should smile.

At that moment, Lysander Mulverhill was leaning against the parapet over 44th street. Under him flowed the shining iron river of railroad tracks. Engines rumbled back and forth. Signal lights of red and green and yellow flashed and disappeared in greater darkness.

"How can he fulfill such a promise?" Lysander asked.

"We have never known the extent of Hopwood's power," replied Moffit. "And even now I do not understand it. Rich, influential he may be; but how he can barter the nomination is as mysterious as that star." Some newspapermen have a knack of ending their sentences with a smack of blank verse.

"Let me see the letter again," Lysander requested, drawing near the bridge lamp. He read:

"In consideration of receiving_my nomination from and through Elisha Hopwood, I agree, upon my election to the Presidency, if I be elected, to appoint as Attorney-General whomsoever is advised and recommended to me by the said Elisha Hopwood.'

"Queer that he did not fear to put his signature to such a contract! Do you know, Hopwood will think he was waylayed to get the document back. And yet, no. That would defeat the nomination. I suppose that you will wait a day or two before publishing the story, to divert Hopwood's suspicions from you and your paper."

"Mulverhill, have you ever tried the experiment of making a city editor wait? If not, you have one of life's most interesting episodes in store. Try it some time before Death glares at you beside his leveled spear. Danger to a reporter is the subject of comic stories during an afterdinner quarter-hour of idleness."

66

"What did Hopwood say to you?" "Oggle-agoggle!' I think he said. Did the esquire have an observation to make?" "No; I put his hat over his mouth and cautioned him not to talk through it, as I would not believe a word he said. What are you going to do now?"

"I have an appointment with the camera-man, who is, at this very unwitching hour, in waiting at Hopwood's home. If he doesn't keep his word to capture the very form and likeness of the old gentleman, I shall myself hie me and request the good man's panel, saving that he recognized me not as his assailant and hurls back my request with an oath. It is about half after ten-so it is."

CHAPTER XII.

Lysander Mulverhill sat in his living room, quite forlornly at ease. His environment was fairly harmonious, from the ticking of the clock to the uttermost constellation swinging in the skies of night; that is, Lysander's night, but doubtless making considerable day in their own orbits.

Lysander puffed smoke at the ceiling, and watched the play of tints. Yes; everything was working well with him. He had about him the very costliest examples of civilization. He was a fine specimen of the evolution of man; more particularly, at the end of a very superb stock of ancestry.

He represented the whole scheme handsomely. In subconscious proof of all this, he looked at his watch. It was accurate with the clock. The watch and the clock had been manufactured thousands of miles apart. Yet they told the same minute in parallel with the solar system. The midnight of the sun might not be the exact midnight of standard time; but the world arranges those little matters to suit itself. Liberally speaking, watch and clock and solar system were working geometrically in the same exactitude.

Verily, all was going well, except Ly

sander's heart. Had his heart been a watch or a clock, it would have gained an hour or two whenever his mind received the impression of this name, "Honora." Had his heart been the earth, it would have budged fifty degrees across the merid

ian when a breeze whispered "Honora." This perturbation was unwonted; but he had wanted it long. He desired at least one great thrill out of life. Now, it was as if the word, "Honora," were a dove that flew from a distance fluttering into his heart.

It seemed that he had been a skulker. He was in love, but not a lover. This was wrong, for the soul should go on its fancied way even though its destination be destined as merely the end of all. Doing is doing, though failure squat in the path.

Engrossing his attention on the table was the flint sword. To look upon it filled its owner with savage devotion. It lay there, a barbaric denunciation of the frivolous, modern love. It bespoke passion as against sentiment, great heart against hollow tongue, man against manThe love that tousled the hair now appealed to this man. His eyes hovered over that flint thing reflected in the polished table; its crudity seemed to arraign the table's polish as falsehood.

ner.

Lysander gripped the knife. His hand glowed red and white with the clenching. His jaws were tight as his hand. brows glowered. With inspired valor, he bounded from the chair. The sword had its effect.

In the man's eyes was an ancient fire; behind those eyes could be no conventional intent. intent. His next act would be sudden. Etiquette is the art of not surprising. In the world of good form, matters are arranged as neatly as duties aboard a ship of war. Every word has its function; every phrase its instant. Flattery goes on duty at such and such a time; silence has its time. The well-groomed one must even say "Damn" at the proper occasion, when every one else knows that the only proper word is "damn" as aforesaid. Thus even when the debutante used the word, at a spirited crisis, nobody was shocked. All expected it.

Lysander was bent upon the improper. Improper, untrue, incorrect, wrong, faulty and many other synonyms all mean the same, and all have equal guilt when good form is violated. Lysander was bent on the improper. He had been told by Honora that she would attend a certain theatrical performance that night. The play was now about over. She was supping