Standish went to the League’s headquarters, where for two hours he busied himself with routine affairs, and tried to shut out memory of the deep, taunting voice and masterful, amused eyes that had held him captive, and had turned him from the real purpose of his visit. And in time the light, sneering eyes deepened into liquid brown, and the sonorous voice into Anice Lanier’s. For whatever theme might form any particular verse of the day’s song for Clive, he noticed of late that Anice was certain to be the ever-recurrent refrain. Wearied with his evening’s work, Standish returned late to his own rooms. His man said, as he helped the candidate off with his light covert coat: “A messenger boy brought a letter for you, sir, about an hour ago. He said there was no answer. I left it on your desk.” Clive picked up the typewritten envelope listlessly and tore it open. It contained a note, also typewritten, and a thicker enclosure. He read: “_Anonymous letters carry a stigma. Perhaps that is why you did not profit by my last one. I have good reasons for not signing my name. And you have good reason to know by now that what I write is the truth. Be wiser this time. I enclose a list of the County Chairmen who have sold out to Conover, the name of the Chairman to be chosen for next week’s State Convention, and a rough draft of the plan to be used for your defeat. Next to each detail you will find my suggestion for blocking it. You owe it to yourself and to the people to take advantage of what I send you._” “He’s right, whoever he is!” exclaimed Clive, half-aloud. “It’s the only way I can fight Conover on equal terms. There’s no sense in my standing on a foolish scruple when so much hangs on the result of the Convention.” He snatched up the enclosure which had slipped to the floor. Irresolute he held it for almost a minute, his firm lips twitching, his eyes cloudy with perplexity. Then, with a sigh of self-contempt he slipped note and enclosure in a long envelope, addressed it and rang for his man. “See that this is delivered to-night,” he ordered. The valet, as he left the room, glanced surreptitiously at the envelope’s address. To his infinite bewilderment he saw the superscription: “_Caleb Conover, Esq., 167 Pompton Avenue. Personal._” There was a terrible half hour in the Mausoleum that night. CHAPTER IX A CONVENTION AND A REVELATION The day of the State Convention! The Convention Hall at Granite was a big barn-like building, frequently used for church and school entertainments, and occasionally giving a temporary home to some struggling theatrical company. For the holding of the convention which was to name the Governor of the Mountain State a feeble attempt at decorating the vast interior had been made by Conover’s State chairman.