“I have,” she returned, in the same level voice. “Also the sender of two other letters of the sort, earlier in the campaign. One of these was to Mr. Standish. It contained a description of your plan for the county caucuses and of the measures you had framed against his up-State tour. Mr. Standish destroyed that letter and refused to act on its suggestion.” “More fool he. Who wrote it?” “The second letter was to Mr. Ansel,” went on Anice. “It gave him the idea for scattering issues of an out-of-State paper along the speech-route, with advertisements and report of——” “Who wrote it, I asked you?” “The same person wrote all three.” “Then who——” “I did.” “This isn’t a thing to joke about. There’s a leak somewhere pretty high up, and I must find——” “I wrote them.” She spoke slowly, as though imparting a lesson. The Railroader’s eyes searched her face one instant. Then he dropped back, heavy and inert, into the farthest recess of his chair. “Good Lord!” he whispered, staring at her blankly. “I wrote them,” reiterated Anice. “No one knew, not even Mr. Standish, until to-day. I brought him here this evening, because something that is to be said must be said in his hearing. I have his promise not to interfere in this interview, but to let me take my own course. It was I, too, at whose advice he bolted the ticket at——” “_You’ve_ done all this?” blurted Caleb, finding his shattered self-poise at last. “Are you crazy, girl?” “No; I am quite sane. From the start I have helped Mr. Standish. By my help, I believe, he will win the Governorship. I have learned much from you, in practical politics, Mr. Conover. I intend to put some of that education into use. You see——” “You’ve backtracked me? _You_, of all the folks alive! Why, I’d ’a’ gambled my whole pile on your whiteness, girl. This is a measly joke of some kind. It’s——” “It’s the truth, Mr. Conover.” And Caleb, looking deep into her eyes, could at last doubt no longer. A dull red crept into his face. “Well, I’ll be damned!” he said, slow, measured of voice, rigid of body. “Jockeyed by the one person in the world I ever had any trust in! Cleaned out like any drunken sailor in a dance hall! Say,” he added in puzzled querulousness, “what’d the Almighty mean by putting eyes like yours in the face of a——” A sudden forward movement from Standish checked him, and, incidentally, drove from his brain the last mists of bewilderment. The Railroader settled forward in his chair, his teeth meeting in the stump of the cigar he had so contentedly lighted but a few minutes before. He was himself again; arrogant, masterful, vibrant with quick resource. A sardonic smile creased his wooden face.