In truth Senator Blair had begun to think that he should have to take Burroughs' money. How could he ever face his sister, his world again? He made sure that he was not only called a murderer, but that he was one. He might as well be other things. No appellation could be so terrible as that first. He would take the thirty thousand dollars if it should be forthcoming, vote and take the first train west the same day. In the Orient he could lose his identity as a bribe-taker and a murderer. The torture never relaxed during the days preceding the judge's funeral. Late on the afternoon of the day of the burial of the man whom he had so nearly wronged the senator's attention was drawn to a low rustle near the door opening from his room to the hall outside. Something white and long was being cautiously pushed under the door. Charlie was alone, and he weakly pulled himself to that mysterious package. The soft _feel_ of it thrilled him like brandy. Burroughs had come to his terms! He could get away! But he must previously acknowledge before all men that he had been bought at a price. The odium.... A flirt of the devil's tail brought a new thought to his fevered brain--fevered by remorse and the effects of long-continued and unwonted alcoholic stimulants. Suppose that he did not vote? Suppose that he kept this fortune (he counted it over to assure himself of its reality), pleading his sickness until the last day of the session, and go ... go.... The thought swung him to uneasy sleep. While he slept the doctor and the senator from Chouteau came into the room as they returned from the cemetery. Blair had been too much occupied in his dizzy thought to remember to hide his ill-gotten money, and on the white counterpane lay those proofs of Burroughs' infamy. "Thirty thousand dollars!" gasped the doctor, in undertones, counting the large bills and sheafing them in one trembling hand. "What shall we do?" "Nothing," responded Danvers, very quietly. "When Charlie wakes I will talk with him. I do not believe that he will keep that money or vote for Burroughs." "How fortunate that Winifred did not come in with us!" said the older man. "You stay here, Phil, and I will keep her away for an hour. He will not sleep long. He is too feverish." Danvers nodded acquiescence, and the physician tiptoed away. Before many minutes the sick man awoke. Danvers sat near the bed, reading the evening paper. Blair looked around with the impersonal eyes of the sick, then saw the pile of bank notes on the stand beside his bed. He started and gave a furtive look at Philip. Their eyes met squarely. "You will send that money back, Charlie." The words were not so much query as certainty. Blair, shamed, was long in replying. "I can't afford to, Danvers," he said finally. "I'm not only a poor man, but a ruined one as well. I may keep it and--get out of the State."