The automobile came swinging up the drive on the tail of Mr. Malone’s defensive explanation. Oliver hurried off to greet the occupants of the car, Mr. Sikes hobbling along in his wake. Malone refilled his pipe as he strode across the stable yard. In the lee of the barn he scorched his fingers. His gaze was fixed on the swamp. Far out in the “danger zone” a number of men were compactly grouped. A solitary figure was running toward the Baxter house, while from the main highway to the right of the slough a dozen or more scattered people were picking their way gingerly across the intervening space. The detective dropped the charred match and started briskly down to meet the runner. He was no longer bored. He was an alert, vital, keen-sensed hunter of men. Mrs. Grimes appeared on the front porch as the three committee-men stepped out of the car. She knew one of them, James Parsons, a lawyer. “Good afternoon, Mrs. Grimes,” said he, coming up the steps. “Baxter here?” “He’s around back. I’ll call—” “Just a second. I’d like a word with you in private. Hello, here he is.” There were handshakings, and then Parsons motioned with his head for Serepta to remain behind as the others entered the house. “Say, have you got any influence over him, Mrs. Grimes?” “Not a bit,” said Serepta. “What have you men decided he ought to do? Drop out?” “We’ve decided—the whole Central Committee—that he’d be a damned fool to drop out of the race. Excuse my French.” “With pleasure. Now, let me give you a piece of advice.” She looked over her shoulder to make sure that Oliver was out of hearing. “Don’t plead with him. Act as mad as you know how. Don’t go in there and tell him he’d be a damned fool to drop out—excuse _my_ French—don’t go at him that way. Tell him he’d be an ornery, low-lifed skunk if he left you in the lurch like that. Make it strong. Nobody on earth minds being called a damned fool, Mr. Parsons, but it is something awful to be called a skunk. He is really serious about withdrawing. You mustn’t let him. All he needs is your encouragement and he’ll—” “You think it will encourage him if we call him a skunk?” “I didn’t say you were to call him one,” said she tartly. “I said you were to tell him he’d _be_ one.” “If you have the slightest influence—” “I told you I haven’t a bit. You men got him into this race and it’s your business to keep him in it. I guess you’d better go in. They’re calling you.” Mr. Sikes ambled up as Parsons disappeared through the door. He stopped short in the gravel walk just below where Mrs. Grimes was standing. After an instant’s hesitation, he drew nearer to the rail, treading ruthlessly upon the frost-ravaged peony bed that skirted the porch. He felt that it was necessary to lower his voice. “We’ve only six more days to go, Serepty,” he said. “This is the nineteenth.” “Yes. He will be thirty on the twenty-fifth. I hope you’ll be satisfied, Joe Sikes.”