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Her story ended there, and she sat silent while he continued to look at her. So much had perished in the wreck of his faith that he did not attach much value to what remained. It scarcely mattered that he believed her when the truth was so sordid. There had been, after all, nothing to envy him for but what Mrs. Nimick had seen; the core of his life was as mean and miserable as his sister’s. . . .

His wife rose at length, pale but still calm. She had a kind of external dignity which she wore like one of her rich dresses. It seemed as little a part of her now as the finery of which his gaze contemptuously reckoned the cost.

“John–” she said, laying her hand on his shoulder.

He looked up wearily. “You had better go to bed,” he interjected.

“Don’t look at me in that way. I am prepared for your being angry with me–I made a dreadful mistake and must bear my punishment: any punishment you choose to inflict. But you must think of yourself first–you must spare yourself. Why should you be so horribly unhappy? Don’t you see that since Mr. Fleetwood has behaved so well we are quite safe? And I swear to you I have paid back every penny of the money.”

VI

THREE days later Shackwell was summoned by telephone to the Governor’s office in the Capitol. There had been, in the interval, no communication between the two men, and the papers had been silent or non-committal.

In the lobby Shackwell met Fleetwood leaving the building. For a moment the Attorney-General seemed about to speak; then he nodded and passed on, leaving to Shackwell the impression of a face more than ever thrust forward like a weapon.

The Governor sat behind his desk in the clear autumn sunlight. In contrast to Fleetwood he seemed relaxed and unwieldy, and the face he turned to his friend had a gray look of convalescence. Shackwell wondered, with a start of apprehension, if he and Fleetwood had been together.

He relieved himself of his overcoat without speaking, and when he turned again toward Mornway he was surprised to find the latter watching him with a smile.

“It’s good to see you, Hadley,” the Governor said.

“I waited to be sent for; I knew you’d let me know when you wanted me,” Shackwell replied.

“I didn’t send for you on purpose. If I had, I might have asked your advice, and I didn’t want to ask anybody’s advice but my own.” The Governor spoke steadily, but in a voice a trifle too well disciplined to be natural. “I’ve had a three days’ conference with myself,” he continued, “and now that everything is settled I want you to do me a favor.”

“Yes?” Shackwell assented. The private issues of the affair were still wrapped in mystery to him, but he had never had a moment’s doubt as to its public solution, and he had no difficulty in conjecturing the nature of the service he was to render. His heart ached for Mornway, but he was glad the inevitable step was to be taken without further delay.

“Everything is settled,” the Governor repeated, “and I want you to notify the press that I have decided to reappoint Fleetwood.”

Shackwell bounded from his seat. “Good heavens!” he ejaculated.

“To reappoint Fleetwood,” the Governor repeated, “because at the present juncture of affairs he is the only man for the place. The work we began together is not finished, and I can’t finish it without him. Remember the vistas opened by the Lead Trust investigation–he knows where they lead and no one else does. We must put that inquiry through, no matter what it costs us, and that is why I have sent for you to take this letter to the ‘Spy.'”

Shackwell’s hand drew back from the proffered envelope.

“You say you don’t want my advice, but you can’t expect me to go on such an errand with my eyes shut. What on earth are you driving at? Of course Fleetwood will persist in refusing.”