“I wish to say, right here,” he began, with a rasping leisureliness, “that I hope no member of this honoured body will take my remarks as personal or unparliamentary--_but_”--he raised a big forefinger and shook it with menace at the presiding officer, at the same time suddenly lifting his voice to an unprintable shriek--“I say to _you_, sir, that the song of the siren has been _heard_ in the land, and the call of Delilah has been answered! When the Senator from Stackpole rose in this chamber, less than three weeks ago, and denounced this iniquitous measure, I heard him with pleasure--we _all_ heard him with pleasure--_and_ respect! In spite of his youth and the poor quality of his expression, _we_ listened to him. _We_ knew he was sencere! What has caused the change in him? What _has_, I ask? I shall not tell you, upon this floor, but I've taken mighty good care to let most of you know, during the morning, either by word of mouth or by _note_ of hand! Especially those of you of the drains and dikes and others who might follow this young Samson, whose locks have been shore! _I've_ told you all about that, and more--_I've_ told you the _inside_ history of some _facts_ about the bill that I will not make public, because I am too confident of our strength to defeat this devilish measure, and prefer to let our vote speak our opinion of it! Let me not detain you longer. _I_ thank you!” Long before he had finished, the Senator from Stackpole was being held down in his chair by Truslow and several senators whose seats were adjacent; and the vote was taken amid an uproar of shouting and confusion. When the clerk managed to proclaim the result over all other noises, the bill was shown to be defeated and “killed,” by a majority of five votes. A few minutes later, Alonzo Rawson, his neckwear disordered and his face white with rage, stumbled out of the great doors upon the trail of Battle, who had quietly hurried away to his hotel for lunch as soon as he had voted. The black automobile was vanishing round a corner. Truslow stood upon the edge of the pavement staring after it ruefully: “Where is Mrs. Protheroe?” gasped the Senator from Stackpole. “She's gone,” said the other. “Gone where?” “Gone back to Paris. She sails day after tomorrow. She just had time enough to catch her train for New York after waiting to hear how the vote went. She told me to tell you good-bye, and that she was sorry. Don't stare at me Rawson! I guess we're in the same boat!--Where are you going?” he finished abruptly. Alonzo swung by him and started across the street. “To find Battle!” the hoarse answer came back. The conquering Josephus was leaning meditatively upon the counter of the cigar-stand of his hotel when Alonzo found him. He took one look at the latter's face and backed to the wall, tightening his grasp upon the heavy-headed ebony cane it was his habit to carry, a habit upon which he now congratulated himself.