"Certainly not! Not till I see my father! He is in danger!" "I assure you he is not. I left him with the Governor only a few minutes ago, and the Senator was never better in his life--nor safer!" In spite of his best endeavor to be consolatory and matter-of-fact he was not able to keep a certain significance out of his tone. From where she stood she could look across the rotunda and down into the square. The glare of the lights made all movements visible. The crowd was melting away. "Stewart, brains and tact have accomplished wonders here to-night. I want to know all the truth. Why shouldn't you be as candid to me as you seemed to be with those men when you were talking to them? I want to give my gratitude to somebody! The name of our good state has been kept clean. You're not fair to me if you leave me in the dark any longer." "I did my little bit, that's all! I'm only one of the cogs!" "I know how I'll make you tell. I propose to give you all the credit. And I never knew you to keep anything that didn't belong to you." "Now you're not fair yourself, Lana! We just put our heads together--the whole of us--that's all! Put our heads together! You know! As men will!" His stammering eagerness did not satisfy her feminine penetration. Her daughterly interest in the Senator's political standing was stirred as she reflected. "My father is down here to see that his fences are in good shape," she declared, with true Washington sapience. "I think it was his duty and privilege to step out there and make the speech. I'm surprised because he let such an opportunity slip. With all due respect to the mayor of Marion, you were not at all dignified, Stewart. They laughed at you--and I didn't blame them!" "I can't blame 'em, either," he confessed. "I--I--I guess I lost my head. I'm not used to making speeches. I have made two since supper, and both of 'em have seemed to stir up a lot of trouble for me." "I think, myself, that you're rather unfortunate as a speechmaker," she returned, dryly. "I suppose you're going back to report to father. I'll go with you." In her manner there was implied promise that she would proceed to learn more definitely in what quarters her especial gratitude ought to be expended. "Lana," he urged, "I wish you'd go home and wait for your talk with your father when he comes. He'll be coming right along. I'll see that he does. There's nothing--not much of anything to keep him here. But I need to have a little private confab with him." "So private that I mustn't listen? I hope that we're still old friends, Stewart, you and I, though your attitude in regard to father's affairs has made all else between us impossible."