Last night—secure in his impregnable self-trust—he had broken his inviolable rule. As a result he had become a laughing-stock for the people whose favor he so unspeakably desired to win. As to his own adherents, he gave their possible opinions not one thought. Whatever the Boss said “went” with them. Had he declared himself a candidate for holy orders, or blurted out the innermost secrets of the “machine,” they would probably have believed he was acting for the best. But those others——! [Illustration: She was very pretty and dainty and young, in her simple white morning frock. Page 47.] And, over and above all, his declaration of candidacy for Governor—— A knock at the door of his study broke in on the audible groan of self-contempt this last and ever-recurrent thought wrung from his tight lips. Caleb stopped midway down the room, his short red hair bristling with fury at the interruption. “What do you want?” he snarled. The door opened and Anice Lanier came in. She was very pretty and dainty and young, in her simple white morning frock. She carried a set of tablets whereon it was her custom to transcribe notes of Caleb’s morning instructions for reference or for later amplification by his two stenographers. “Well!” roared Conover, glowering across the room at her, “what in hell do _you_ want?” “To tender my resignation,” was the unruffled reply. “Your _what_?” he gasped, stupidly. “My resignation,” in the same level, impersonal tones. “To take effect at once. Good morning.” She was half-way out of the room before her employer could hurry after and detain her. “What’s—what’s the meaning of this?” asked Caleb, the brutal belligerency trailing out of his voice. Then, before she could answer, he added: “Because I spoke like that just now? Was that it? Because I said—And you’d throw over a good job just because of a few cranky words? Yes, I believe you would. You’d do it. It isn’t a bluff. Maybe that’s why you make such a hit with me, Miss Lanier. You’re not scared every time I open my mouth. And you stand up for yourself.” He eyed her in a quizzically admiring fashion, as one might a beautiful but unclassified natural history specimen. She made no reply, but stood waiting in patience for him to move from between her and the door. Caleb grinned. “Want me to apologize, I s’pose?” he grumbled. “A gentleman would not wait to ask.” “Maybe you think a gentleman wouldn’t of said what I did, in the first place, eh?” “Yes, I do think so. Don’t you?” “Well, I’m sorry. Let it go at that. Now let’s get to work. Say”—as they moved across to their wonted places at the big centre table, “you oughtn’t to take offence at anything about me this morning. You must know how sore I am.” “What’s the matter?” “As if you didn’t know! You saw how many kinds of a wall-eyed fool I made of myself last night. Isn’t that enough to make a man sore? And to think of it being taken down by those newspaper idiots and printed all over the country!”