At this stage in her reflections, George Bogardus, undertaker, darkened her door. George was not a youth, but he simulated youth. He wore the sort of clothes one sees in magazine illustrations--with exaggerations. He wore spats. A handkerchief with a colored border allowed its corner to peer from his breast pocket, and useless eyeglasses hung from a broad black ribbon. If George were seen standing in the window of some clothing store catering to the trade of those who dress by ear rather than by eye, he would have been perfection. Once George saw a play in Boston, and since that day he had impersonated a young English nobleman who had been its hero. His speech was a quaint mingling of New England intonation and idiom with what he could remember of the inflections and vocal mannerisms of Lord Algernon Pauncefote. “Aw--I say,” he began, lifting his eyeglasses to his nose. “Aw--Miss Lee.” “Yes, Mr. Bogardus.” “I say--this is the day we kin start depositin’ our votes, hain’t it?... What?” “In the Handsomest-Man contest?” “Er--precisely. Y’understand--aw--have no interest myself. Not the least.” This was Lord Pauncefote at his best. “Buy m’ friends. What? Cheerio! Eh?” “Of course, Mr. Bogardus.” “Er--say, who else has got any votes in?” “Nobody, as yet.” “Satisfactory, very. Yes, yes.... Lance Bangs hain’t entered yit?” “Not yet.” “I fawncy ’e will be,” said Mr. Bogardus. “Aw--permit me to--er--deposit with you--aw--eighteen of these so-called coupons.... Guess that’ll give me as good a start as any, seems as though.” “Yes, indeed, Mr. Bogardus. Good luck to you.” “Er--notice anything?” He toyed with the ribbon on his eyeglasses and cast an arch glance upon Carmel. “Oh yes, indeed! How distinguished it makes you look!” He purred. “That’s the way I calc’late to look. How was it that feller said it in French. Seems like I can’t twist my tongue around French.... Eh?... Oh, dis-tan-gay. Sounds kind of, don’t it. Say.” He turned toward the door, but paused. “Heard the news?” he asked. “What news?” “Aw--fawncy an editor askin’ that. Fawncy!... They’re goin’ to declare the office of sheriff vacant and git the Governor to appoint Jenney to the job.” “Are you sure?” “It’s bein’ talked all over. Jenney says so himself. Rippin, eh? What?” So they dared go as far as that--to appoint to the high office of sheriff of the county a man such as Deputy Jenney! The thought was not without its pleasant facets. If she had forced them to take such a step it must mean she was reckoned as dangerous.... She hugged that thought to her breast. CHAPTER XV Evan Bartholomew Pell was thinking. He had been thinking for hours, and according to present rate of progress, it would be hours more before he arrived at a conclusion. He had found an interesting subject--one discovered rather later in life than by most people, but, perhaps, all the more interesting for that reason. The subject was himself.