“You’ll have to go to Paris for her,” went on Conover, “and bring her back. Take the next steamer. There’s boats sailing on most of the lines Wednesdays. Let’s see, this is Monday. Go to Ballston, as you were going to, to-morrow morning. Get that package from Lanier, and send it to me from there by registered mail. Be sure to have it registered. Then catch the afternoon train to New York. That ought to get you in by five-thirty or six. I’ll telegraph Wendell to-night to find out what’s the fastest steamer sailing next morning, and tell him to take passage for you. Hunt him up as soon as you reach town. And sleep on board the boat. That’ll cut out any chance of your missing it. Bring Blanche back here to us by the earliest steamer from France or England that you can get. And while you’re in Paris, if you can hire some one on the quiet to drop over into Italy and put d’Antri into the accident ward of some dago hospital for a month or two, I don’t mind paying five thousand for the job. Come up to my study, and I’ll fix you up financially for the trip, and give you that note to Bruce Lanier.” Gerald heard and nodded assent to the rapped-out series of directions with as little emotion as though commanded to transmit some campaign message to Billy Shevlin. His father, noting the quiet attention and response, was pleased therewith. And the latent fondness and trust which were slowly placing his recent contempt for his only and once adored son, perceptibly increased. As the two men left the room, Mrs. Conover looked lovingly after Gerald through her tears. “Poor dear boy!” she soliloquized. “He’s getting to be quite his old bright self again. When Caleb mentioned his going to New York his eyes lighted up just the way they used to when he was little.” All unaware that she had detected something which even the Railroader’s vigilance had overlooked, the good woman once more abandoned herself to the joys of a new and delightfully unrestrained fit of weeping. When at last she and her husband were together, alone, that night, Mrs. Conover had some thought of commenting upon that fleeting expression she had caught on Gerald’s face. But Caleb was so immersed in his own unpleasant thoughts she lacked the courage to intrude upon his reflections. Which is rather a pity, for had she done so, the inefficient little woman might have changed the history of the Mountain State. CHAPTER XIII THE FOURTH MESSENGER OF JOB The rain Caleb Conover had so eagerly desired as a check on fair weather reformers’ Election Day zeal began soon after midnight, and with it a gale that is still remembered as the “Big November Wind.”