Inquiry showed that a break had occurred in the gas mains which could not be remedied until morning. Candles and lamps were hurriedly sent for. Meantime, though a certain confusion followed the plunging of the place into darkness, the crowd had been, on the whole, orderly. In spite of this, the chief of police, with twenty reserves, coming on the scene, had ordered Standish civilly enough to dismiss the audience. Then the policemen had filed up on the stage, illumining it by their bull’s-eye lanterns, and clustered ominously about the speakers. In response to Clive’s angry protest, the chief had simply reiterated his order, adding that his department was responsible for the city’s peace and quiet, and that the crowd showed an inclination to riot. Nor could the Arm of the Law be shaken from this stand. The audience, during the colloquy between Standish and the chief had grown impatient, and an occasional catcall or shrill whistle had risen from the darkened auditorium. At each of these sounds the police had gripped their nightsticks and glanced with a fine apprehension at their leader for commands. The upshot of the matter had been the forced dismissal of the spectators. Standish had scouted Ansel’s suggestion that the whole catastrophe was a ruse of Conover’s, until, as he walked down the dark aisle toward the door, he heard a policeman whisper: “I was waitin’ for the chief to give some of us the tip to pinch him.” “An’ let him make a noise like a martyr?” grunted a second voice easily recognized as Billy Shevlin’s. “You must think the Boss is as balmy in the belfry as you blue lobsters. He’d ’a’ had Geoghegan broke if he’d——” The rest of the reply had been lost. No other disengaged hall could be found in the vicinity; and the meeting from which Clive had expected so much had gone by the board. He walked home in a daze of chagrin. How could he hope to fight a man who employed such weapons; who swayed such power in every city department; who thus early in the campaign showed plainly he would stop at nothing in beating his opponent? Then the young candidate’s teeth clenched tight, and the sullen grit that for so many centuries has carried the bulldog race of yellow-haired, strong-jawed Anglo-Saxons to victory against hopeless odds came to his aid. He shook his big shoulders as if tossing off some physical weight, entered his rooms and switched on the electric light. On his study table lay a special delivery letter, neatly typewritten, as was the single long sheet of foolscap it contained. Standish glanced at the bottom of the page. There was no signature. Then he read: