Mr. Gooch was now convinced. It was Oliver Baxter and he was very much alive. “Well, what do you want?” “I want to come in and spend the night with you, that’s what I want.” “There’s a good hotel up on Jackson Street,” began Mr. Gooch, but curiosity getting the better of him he abruptly called out for Oliver to wait till he had put on his pants and he would come down and let him in. As he hurriedly started to slip on his trousers he heard his brother-in-law whistling a strange and jaunty melody out in the yard. He never had heard anything like it before. A sudden, desolating thought struck him as he sat on the edge of the bed. His trousers were but half on when the shock came. He knew not how long he sat there, powerless and inactive, staring at nothing. A shout from outside aroused him. He groaned and then slipped the other leg into his trousers. Calamity! His cake was dough! The return of Oliver Baxter meant his political doom. Young Oliver, vindicated, would be carried into office by an unprecedented majority, riding serene and triumphant on a wave of popularity that would sweep all opposition before it. Somewhere back in his mind lurked a very distasteful phrase that ended with “cocked hat,” although he could not quite remember the rest of it. He could and did remember young Oliver’s campaign boast, for it was very recent and distinct and unnecessarily public. “Skin him alive” was the heathenish slogan. As he descended the stairs he tried to think of some means to avert the calamity. He thought of locking his brother-in-law in the cellar and keeping him there until after election day. He wondered if he could persuade the old man—for a substantial cash consideration—to remain in seclusion or wander off again or—But, no; he had sunk too much money already, and there was still an additional thousand or two to be paid out for the search and— He stopped suddenly, reeling as from a blow. The lighted candle, held almost directly in front of his face, witnessed a most astonishing transformation. Mr. Gooch’s harassed visage slowly lighted up; it became almost radiant. He hurried to the door and unbolted it quickly, for he was now afraid that old Oliver might have taken it into his head to disappear again! He had just remembered Oliver October’s promise to pay him five thousand dollars in cash if he produced his father, dead or alive! He was actually smirking as he pressed the electric light button. The wind blew the candle out as he threw the door open. “Come right in, Oliver,” he cried, quite heartily but still with a trace of apprehension. He had not recovered from his scare and half-expected Mr. Baxter to float past him into the hall. A bent, disreputable-looking figure shuffled in, thumping his cane on the floor.