“You talk fine, Miss Lanier,” observed Caleb, all master of himself once more, “but talking’s never quoted at par, except in a poker game and a wedding ceremony. You’ve been reading novels, and you’ve framed up a dandy line of story book ree-venge. It’s as good as any stage villainess could have thought of. But, honest, it clean surprises me how a woman with all your brains could have took such a fool plan seriously. It’s a grand stunt to grab the centre of the stage and drive the wicked oppressor out into the snow. Only it don’t happen to be snowing to-night. Neither really nor fig’ratively. No, no, Miss Lanier, your hand’s a four-flush, and I hold a whole bunch of aces. Go ahead with your little fireworks, if that’s your diversion. It won’t bother anyone. Certainly not _me_. The only regret I’ve got in the whole business is finding you’ve so little horse sense.” “If I had so little,” answered Anice calmly, “the affair would have to end here and now. As it is——” “Well?” “It’s going on.” “Oh, you’ve extra cards to turn that four-flush into a win, eh? Show ’em out. I call.” “If you put it that way. I’m told it only needs one card to convert a ‘four-flush’ into a good hand. Perhaps I can play that card later. Perhaps you won’t oblige me to play it at all. I hope you won’t.” “Go ahead.” “I have not been, unwillingly, in your confidence all these years for nothing.” Caleb whistled. “I’m on!” said he curtly. “If I don’t stand aside and let your little friend Standish win the race, you’ll do some exposing? Sort of like the girl who showed up John D. in a magazine? Well, fire away. In the first place, I’m not John D., and the American public (outside the Mountain State) ain’t laying awake nights to find out how Caleb Conover got his. And if you mean to use ‘Confessions of a Secretary’ for a campaign document this fall, you’re welcome to. I’ll take my chance on getting a little more mud than usual slung at me. It won’t affect the election, and you know it won’t. And you ought to know by this time how little I care what folks think of my character. No, it won’t do, Miss Lanier. If that’s the card you’re counting on using to change your four-flush into a winning hand——” “You are mistaken. This time, Mr. Conover, it is _I_ who am surprised at _your_ lack of perception. The ‘card’ I spoke of is the Denzlow correspondence.” “The Denzlow—? I burned that a year ago—burned it in this very room. In this fireplace. You were here and saw me. And Denzlow died last May. I’m afraid your ‘card’ won’t help that poor, lonely four-flush hand of yours after all. I’m sorry, but——”