Caleb, colder, harder, less human than ever, gave no outward sign of the silent warfare that had torn him during that study-fire vigil on the night of Anice Lanier’s defection. Beyond curtly stating that the secretary had left his service of her own accord, he gave no information concerning her. He had heard she was living with an aunt in another part of town; and twice, with stony face and unrecognizing eye, he had passed her on the street, walking with Clive. He had also received from her a brief, business-like note telling him that her brother had instructions to deliver to Conover’s representative, any time after noon on Election Day, the Denzlow letters. It was on the eve of election. The campaign work was done. One way or another, the story was now told. The last instructions for the next day’s duties had been given. Conover, returning home from his headquarters, felt as though the weight of weeks had rolled off his shoulders. Now that he had done all mortal man could, he was not, like a weaker soul, troubled about the morrow. That could take care of itself. His worrying or not worrying could not affect the result. Hence, he did not worry. As he turned into Pompton Avenue and started up the long slope crowned by the garish white marble Mausoleum, his step was as strong and untired as an athlete’s. On his frame of steel and inscrutable face the untold strain of past weeks had left no visible mark. A few steps in advance of him, and going in the same direction, slouched a lank, enervated figure. The Railroader, by the gleam of a street lamp, recognized Gerald, and moved faster to catch up with him. At such rare intervals as he had time to think of domestic affairs, Caleb was more than a little concerned of late over the behavior of this only son of his. Since the visit of his wife to Granite, Gerald’s demeanor had undergone a change that had puzzled even his father’s acute mind. He had waxed listless, taciturn and unnaturally docile. No command seemed too distasteful for him to execute uncomplainingly. No outbreak of rough sarcasm or wrath from Caleb could draw from him a retort, nor so much as a show of interest. Conover knew the lad had taken to drinking heavily and frequently, but also that Gerald’s deepest potations apparently had no other outward effect than to increase his listless apathy. Partly from malice, partly to rouse the youth, Conover had thrown upon him many details of campaign work. To the older man’s wonderment Gerald had accomplished every task with a quiet, wholly uninterested competence that was so unlike his old self as to seem the labor of another man. More and more, since Anice’s departure, Conover had come to lean on Gerald’s help. And now it no longer astonished him to find such help capably given. Yet the father was not satisfied.