“He seems to have plenty for any immediate needs,” returned Wendell. “I saw the contents of his pockets that the police had taken charge of. Besides the morphine case and a few cards and a packet of letters in a sealed wrapper, there were large-denomination bills to the amount of——” “Packet of letters—sealed?” croaked Conover, catching the other’s arm in a grasp that bit to the point of agony. “Letters?” he repeated, his throat dry and contracted. “Oh, I meant to speak to you about them. Gerald asked me to bring them along. He said he got them for you from a man in Ballston to-day, and was to have sent them to you by registered mail. But in the hurry of catching the New York train and the excitement over the prospects of seeing——” “Where are they? Did you bring them?” “I couldn’t,” answered Wendell, marveling at the lightning change in his client’s voice and face. “The police, of course, took charge of them. They will have to be examined by the district attorney’s office before——” “You must hurry or you’ll miss your train. Good night.” Conover slammed the door on his astonished guest and walked back into the library. In the middle of the room where he had so vainly sought to inculcate into his family the “pleasant home hour” habit, the Railroader now stood alone, silent, without motion, his shrewd face an empty, expressionless mask of gray, his eyes alone burning like live coals, showing that the brain within in no way shared the outer shell’s inertia. “I’ve got to work this out later, when I’ve more time,” he muttered. And with the resolve came the impulse so common to him when troubled or excited. “Gaines!” he called to the butler, who, late though the hour was, had not received permission on this great night to retire, “Gaines! order Dunderberg saddled and brought around in fifteen minutes, and have Giles ride with me to-night.” Caleb went up to his dressing-room and hastily changed into his riding clothes. As he strapped on the second of his spurs a confused babel of sound arose just beyond his dressing-room. This apartment served as a sort of antechamber to the study. The noise, therefore, must have come, he knew, from the bevy of men he had left there. This patent fact dawned on Conover as a surprise. He had forgotten his followers’ existence, forgotten the undecided election, the impending Grafton returns on which its result would hang. He had even, since Wendell’s departure, forgotten Jerry’s plight and his own rage and mortification thereat. All life—all the future—now concentrated, for him, about the Denzlow packet, whose contents must by this time, or by morning at latest, be known to the authorities. This last and greatest blow had filled all his emotions, driving out lesser thoughts, fears, hopes and griefs, as a cyclone might rip to thin air the dawn mists over a lake.