The woman flushed scarlet. "Well," she said half-defiantly, "in a way I did, but I can't see that it makes any difference to you. I'm living here quietly, seeing no one, having nothing to do with any one, I should think it was all the same to you."

"That," answered Gordon evenly, "I imagine should have been left for me to decide. However, we needn't discuss it now. You're here, evidently, and taking care of my friend Lynch. I suppose, incidentally, of course your coming back had nothing to do with him."

The woman's eyes did not meet his. "Of course not," she lied glibly.

"Why should you think such a thing?"

The governor raised his eyebrows. "Oh, it simply crossed my mind," he said indifferently; "seeing you here, taking care of him, I suppose.

He's really pretty sick, is he?"

"Is he?" echoed the woman. "I should say he was. He's so weak; that's the trouble. He can hardly lift a finger. But he'll get well; it's just a question of rest, and decent care; that's all."

Gordon rose abruptly. "Well," he said, "I guess I'll go up and see him. Which room is he in?"

"Head of the stairs," she answered, "first door on the right. The only room with a light. You can't miss it. I'll be back in half an hour."

She had reached the door as she spoke, seemingly not anxious to delay her departure.

"One minute!" called Gordon sharply. "You understand, of course, that my being here to-night is absolutely to be kept secret. I shouldn't want you to make any mistake about that."

His tone was scarcely threatening, yet the woman seemed to understand.

"Of course," she answered hastily. "Tom told me that. I understand everything."

Gordon smiled grimly. "That's good," he said dryly. "In half an hour, then."

He held the door open for her; then stepped to the window, and watched her until her figure was swallowed up in the blackness of the night.

Then, turning leisurely, he made his way up the creaking stairs and into the sick-room.

In the dim lamplight Lynch's face, as he sat propped up among the pillows, looked ghastly enough, and yet, as Gordon came forward and pulled a chair up to the bed, it at once struck him that Lynch's eyes looked naturally bright, and when he spoke, his voice, though pitched low, was hardly the voice of a man who is seriously ill.

"Glad to see you, Governor," he said, "and sorry to trouble you so."

Gordon looked at him with keenest scrutiny. "It was some trouble," he answered, "and I dare say I've done a foolish thing in coming here at all. And now, let's not waste any time. What's your important news?"

There was a silence. Outside the grim northeaster drove the rain, sheet upon sheet, against the rattling cas.e.m.e.nt and the flooding pane.

Within, the flickering lamplight threw strange, darting shadows across the sick man's bed. Finally Lynch raised his eyes squarely to Gordon's.

"Governor," he said quietly, "ever since the day I came to see you first, we've both played the game with the cards on the table. I'm going to play it that way now. I haven't any news. I only used that to get you here."

Gordon did not start, or in any way show surprise. On the contrary, he nodded, as if in self-confirmation.

"I thought the chance was about even," he said quietly, "and yet I thought if it was a lie, that for you, Tom, it was a pretty clumsy one. I should be sorry to think I'd overrated you."

Lynch forced a smile, but far back in his half-closed eyes there gleamed a little angry light, "On the face of it," he admitted, "it was clumsy, and so I felt it had a better chance of pa.s.sing for truth.

I apologize, of course. I have no excuse, excepting my anxiety to see you."

The governor leaned back a trifle farther in his chair. "Well," he said, "and what's the story?"

Lynch did not hesitate. "It's like this," he said. "Of course you'd like to see me out of the way, and the old woman, too. That's so, isn't it?"

Gordon smiled faintly. "For the sake of your argument, whatever it is," he said dryly, "I'm perfectly willing to a.s.sume that it's so."

Lynch nodded appreciatively. "Now," he said quickly, "I'm tired of the whole game; sorry I ever started it. I'm afraid of you, Governor, and that's the truth. Let's cry quits. Give me what I want, and I'll get out for good. And what's more, I'll get the old woman away for good, too. I'm on the level. I'll do anything you say; sign any papers you want me to sign. Let's fix it up, and stop the game right here."

The governor's expression was one of faint interest. "How much?" he asked casually.

Lynch's answer came with equal promptness. "Fifty thousand," he said.

Gordon raised his eyebrows a trifle. "Quite a sum," he said mildly.

Lynch shook his head. "Not for what it gets you," he answered. "You'll find the value's there, as they say. It's a good bargain for both of us."

His voice was quiet enough, his tone conversational, and his gaze seemed not to be upon Gordon as he spoke, yet from the corner of his eye he was watching his visitor with a singular intentness. Gordon, as if wearied, yawned leisurely, raising his hands above his head and then replacing them upon his hips. Then, with a purely natural motion, he slipped them into the pockets of his coat.

"Well, Tom," he began slowly, his eyes fixed on the other's face, "I think, on the whole--"

Lynch gave a sudden cry, sharp, warning, insistent. Above the howling of the storm two quick reports sounded almost as one, but the little spurt of flame from the wall behind Gordon's back flashed just on the instant that the governor's finger curled about the trigger of his revolver. Aimlessly Gordon's bullet ripped through the flooring, but the skulking figure in the room adjoining had made sure of his aim, and with a choking cry the governor of the state pitched forward and lay motionless across the bed, with a bullet through his lungs.

In an instant Lynch, in a frenzy of haste, had leaped from the bed and started to dress. Then, suddenly, still but half-clothed, he ran to the door, just in time to meet face to face the slight, stooping figure stealing down the hallway. Lynch raised his hand. "Get that carriage!" he called sharply, "and get it quick! No skulking, now!

Quick, d.a.m.n you! Do you hear? Quick, I say!" And in a very ecstasy of impatience he stood, with face contorted and both arms uplifted and shaking, as if he could thus drive more speedily the crouching figure that nodded and slunk away down the stairs.

Back again he turned into the little room, and lifting the body of the governor on to the bed, he hastily tore away the clothing until the wound lay bare. Quickly his hand fumbled in his pocket until he had found what he sought; then, pulling the cork from the little bottle, with a tiny hook of shining metal he probed for an instant into the bullet's track, and then poured a drop or two of the liquid into the wound. With a long-drawn sigh, as if of relief, he rose, and gazed at the motionless body.

"And that settles you," he muttered, below his breath; "if you should come to, it won't be for long. Maybe that won't make your high-priced doctors sit up and take notice for a bit. And now, by G.o.d," he added brutally, "I guess I'll treat you to a little ride. You don't look like you'd make out very well walking it. d.a.m.n Durgin! Why doesn't he come?"

It was long after midnight when, through the driving sheets of rain, a carriage stole softly up the deserted street and stopped in front of the governor's dwelling. The driver, slipping from the box, opened the carriage door, and helped to hold upright the silent figure that his companion half lifted, half pushed, from within. In silence they carried their burden up the steps, in silence and in haste propped it against the outer door, and again in silence descended and drove away, until the outline of the carriage, quickly blending with the darkness, was at last lost to sight as it turned into the street leading away to the northeast.

Up-stairs, in the pleasant warmth, the faithful Hargreaves, for the twentieth time that night, stepped to the telephone. "Yes, sir," he answered, "all right, sir. Nine o'clock to-morrow morning. Oh, no, indeed. Nothing serious, sir. Just tired. There's no light in his room, now. I think he's sleeping sound."

Outside, braving the wind and the rain and the storm, the huddled figure, with its head sunk on its chest, leaned wearily, as if mutely pleading for shelter, against the fast closed door. The small hours of the morning came, and went. Still the figure was motionless.

Spitefully the lashing rain beat down as if to rouse it; fiercely the gale, howling and moaning through the deserted streets, stopped to beat and buffet it; yet strangely, the figure, gazing with fixed, unseeing eyes, made no effort to resist, no effort to move. Governor Gordon slept soundly indeed.

CHAPTER III

THE HAND OF G.o.d

Vanulm, standing by the window, hat in hand, abstractedly watched the carriage swing smoothly down the street and stop, with a jingle of harness, in front of his door. Abstractedly he walked slowly down the steps and out toward the street, and had even started to get into the carriage, for once without remembering his never-failing word to the coachman on the box, so that the dignified James, violating much against his will all the traditions of his craft, was at last obliged to speak without first being spoken to.

With a preliminary cough he touched his hat. "Begging your pardon, sir," he said, "but is there any chance?"

Vanulm, coming to himself with a start, glanced quickly up. Then slowly he shook his head. "The doctors think not, James," he answered; "we can only hope they may be wrong. We'll drive straight to the hospital, please."

The coachman touched his hat again, and at the word the spirited grays, chafing at the delay, swung swiftly away down the avenue. Out through the long, smooth streets they sped, out through the Arborway, flower and bush and tree still lying cool and green and fair in the splendor of the soft Indian summer day; now slower and slower as the gradually recurring hills grew more frequent and more frequent still, until at last, at the summit, they drew up before the door of the hospital, isolated, restful, serene, looking far off over the valley and the broad blue river winding peacefully along through the cool, green fields, in the wistfully lingering sunshine of the waning afternoon.

Doctor Stratton, the foremost man of his day, slight, alert, composed, met them at the door. With a curt word of greeting he led the way within, and motioned Vanulm to a seat. For a moment or two he sat silent, a troubled frown upon his face. Then he glanced quickly up.