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There was a long pause, during which Shackwell kept his eyes on Mornway. The Governor had turned pale, but when he spoke his voice was full and firm.

“This is sudden,” he said.

Fleetwood stood leaning against a high chair-back, fretting its carved ornaments with restless fingers. “It is sudden–yes. I–there are a variety of reasons.”

“Is one of them the fact that you are afraid of what the ‘Spy’ is going to say?”

The Attorney-General flushed deeply and moved away a few steps. “I’m sick of mud-throwing,” he muttered.

“George Fleetwood!” Mornway exclaimed. He had advanced toward his friend, and the two stood confronting each other, already oblivious of Shackwell’s presence.

“It’s not only that, of course. I’ve been frightfully hard-worked. My health has given way–“

“Since yesterday?”

Fleetwood forced a smile. “My dear fellow, what a slave-driver you are! Hasn’t a man the right to take a rest?”

“Not a soldier on the eve of battle. You have never failed me before.”

“I don’t want to fail you now. But it isn’t the eve of battle–you’re in, and that’s the main thing.”

“The main thing at present is that you promised to stay in with me, and that I must have your real reason for breaking your word.”

Fleetwood made a deprecatory movement. “My dear Governor, if you only knew it, I’m doing you a service in backing out.”

“A service–why?”

“Because I’m hated–because the Lead Trust wants my blood, and will have yours too if you appoint me.”

“Ah, that’s the real reason, then–you’re afraid of the ‘Spy’?”

“Afraid–?”

The Governor continued to speak with dry deliberation. “Evidently, then, you know what they mean to say.”

Fleetwood laughed. “One needn’t do that to be sure it will be abominable!”

“Who cares how abominable it is if it isn’t true?”

Fleetwood shrugged his shoulders and was silent. Shackwell, from a distant seat, uttered a faint protesting sound, but no one heeded him. The Governor stood squarely before Fleetwood, his hands in his pockets. “It istrue, then?” he demanded.

“What is true?”

“What the ‘Spy’ means to say–that you bought my wife’s influence to get your first appointment.”

In the silence Shackwell started suddenly to his feet. A sound of carriage-wheels had disturbed the quiet street. They paused and then rolled up the semicircle to the door of the Executive Mansion.

“John!” Shackwell warned him.

The Governor turned impatiently; there was the sound of a servant’s steps in the hall, followed by the opening and closing of the outer door.

“Your wife–Mrs. Mornway!” Shackwell cried.

Another step, accompanied by a soft rustle of skirts, was advancing toward the library.

“My wife? Let her come!” said the Governor.

V

She stood before them in her bright evening dress, with an arrested brilliancy of aspect like the sparkle of a fountain suddenly caught in ice. Her look moved rapidly from one to the other; then she came forward, while Shackwell slipped behind her to close the door.

“What has happened?” she said.

Shackwell began to speak, but the Governor interposed calmly:

“Fleetwood has come to tell me that he does not wish to remain in office.”

“Ah!” she murmured.

There was another silence. Fleetwood broke it by saying: “It is getting late. If you want to see me to-morrow–“

The Governor looked from his face to Ella’s. “Yes; go now,” he said.

Shackwell moved in Fleetwood’s wake to the door. Mrs. Mornway stood with her head high, smiling slightly. She shook hands with each of the men in turn; then she moved toward the sofa and laid aside her shining cloak. All her gestures were calm and noble, but as she raised her hand to unclasp the cloak her husband uttered a sudden exclamation.

“Where did you get that bracelet? I don’t remember it.”

“This?” She looked at him with astonishment. “It belonged to my mother. I don’t often wear it.”

“Ah–I shall suspect everything now,” he groaned.

He turned away and flung himself with bowed head in the chair behind his writing-table. He wanted to collect himself, to question her, to get to the bottom of the hideous abyss over which his imagination hung. But what was the use? What did the facts matter? He had only to put his memories together–they led him straight to the truth. Every incident of the day seemed to point a leering finger in the same direction, from Mrs. Nimick’s allusion to the imported damask curtains to Gregg’s confident appeal for rehabilitation.