“I’ll nominate you,” said Branagan. “And I’ll send you a list of the men I pick out to run with you. I’m not a fool, Mr. Helm. I know we can’t get in unless we make the people believe we’re sincere--and that we can’t make ’em believe it unless we put up clean men.” Helm smiled. “Yes--we’ve got to make a good strong bluff at decency.” Branagan inspected Helm’s face with a quick, eager glance--a hopeful glance. Helm laughed at him. Branagan colored. “I knew you didn’t understand,” said Helm. “But, as I said before, it doesn’t matter. We’ll only win the one election. Then the people’ll go back to their Republican rut, and in will come Reichman and the old gang again. You calculate that you can make better terms with him after you’ve given him a beating. Now, don’t you see that it’s to your interest to keep me decent--to keep me a scarecrow for Reichman?” Branagan nodded. “You and me’ll have no trouble, George. I’ll let you play your game to suit yourself.” Two months later Helm reappeared at Harrison, resumed the lodging at Mrs. Beaver’s and the dark and dingy little back office in the Masonic Temple. He was dressed in new clothes--a plain, cheap business suit of dark blue, linen shirt, collars and cuffs, a straw hat. He thought himself a stylish, almost a foppish, person. In fact he seemed hardly less unkempt and ill fitted than he had in the black frock suit and top hat of the previous year. Perhaps--but only perhaps--in the days of the toga George Helm might have looked well in clothes; in modern dress he could not look well. The most he could do was to look clean and important and strong--and that he certainly did. Reichman understood, the moment it became known that the young lawyer had as clients four contracting companies in which Pat Branagan was the silent--and sole--partner. Reichman was for making a fight at once. But Judge Powers and Hollister had no fancy for a shower of the shafts which would glance harmlessly from the tough hide of Reichman, but would penetrate their skins and fester in their vanity. “I’ll take care of Helm,” said Hollister. And he sent his son Bart to call. “Glad to see you back,” said Barton, a dazzling but also an agreeable apparition in the dingy dimness of Helm’s office. “We were talking about you only yesterday--I and my sister and Miss Clearwater. You remember her?” “Yes--I--I remember her,” said Helm, as painfully embarrassed as if Miss Eleanor Clearwater, the beautiful, the fashionable, had been there in her own exquisite person. Remember her! Not a day had passed that he had not lived again those hours when chances had thrown him into her company on terms of almost friendly intimacy. “We want you to come to dinner,” continued Barton, pretending not to notice the simple, uncouth, homely Helm’s woeful confusion. “To-morrow night--very informal--dressed as you are--really a home supper.” “Sorry, but I can’t,” George blurted out--curt, rude, uncouth.