And Vickery departed, well satisfied with his half-hour's work. But when he had gone, Gertrude sent for Mary Snow, and they had a long talk together. At three, promptly as the clocks were chiming out the hour, Orlando Vickery presented himself, and was ushered into the Mayor's private office. "Well, I'm here," he said. "We are alone, of course?" He walked over to a curtained doorway, and drew aside the draperies. The stenographer's office was disclosed--empty. He remembered having seen her in the outer office as he came through. "Pardon me," he apologized. "I just wanted to make sure--for your own sake, of course. For while these little arrangements are always being made, we prefer to have no witnesses, you know. Again, pardon me, but where does that door lead to?" He pointed towards the corner, just behind the desk. "Only into a private closet," answered Gertrude. "You can look in if you insist upon it." But she quaked a little inwardly as she said it. "O, no," answered Vickery. "I thought it might lead into one of the other offices. We don't want to be disturbed. Now, for business. Here's my private memorandum. Look it over. Anything you can't understand, just ask me." Gertrude took the book--a small leather-covered memorandum--and began turning its leaves. But somehow she seemed dull of comprehension. "What is this?" she asked. "'Paid in 1907,--Royalties.' What are royalties?" "Well, I preferred to put them that way. I should put you, when we perfect our little transaction, under that head." "O, I see," answered Gertrude. "Here is John O'Brien, $12,000; is that a royalty as you call it?--because he is pledged to the franchise?" "That's what," answered Vickery. "He's already had that much. He was chairman last year, you know." "And Mr. Mann,--our present chairman," asked Gertrude. "Is he here?" "Later on you'll find him," was the reply. Gertrude read on, in a low distinct voice, the various items, showing "royalties" paid various officials, running from $500 up to thousands, finally coming down to Mann's. "Is this right--Otis R. Mann, $13,500?" she asked. "That's right." "And that means that Mr. Mann has already taken $13,500--and pledged himself to get the franchise through?" she asked in her low clear tone. "That's what. All we need now is your signature and to go through the form of getting it passed through the council again, and we are all done," answered Vickery. "You have a queer charter in this town." "And if I sign the proposed bill?" she asked. "You get $20,000 cold cash and a thousand shares of preferred stock," urged Vickery. "Why not give me a certified check right now?" asked the Mayor. "Now if that isn't just like a woman!--a charming feminine trait, too," returned Vickery. "No man would think of asking for a check in these little transactions. Good, solid money is all right, isn't it?" "I suppose so," she returned. "Well?" he asked, after a slight pause. "Well?" she returned.