For several moments after his visitors left Briggs stood motionless at his table. He appreciated the full significance of the opposition to him within his own party; it might mean his defeat; so far back as the previous Spring Stone had foreseen this situation. But he said to himself that he could not have acted differently. He had done his best to serve the party in all legitimate ways; but those heelers cared only for their own selfish interests. Then he realized bitterly that he had made the mistake of trying to play a double game: he had been a straddler. If he had followed a straight course, if he had acted on his convictions, he might now have the satisfaction of feeling that he had been too good for his party. It was chiefly in order to atone to his own conscience for the dishonest work he had done that he had refused to cater to the lower elements of the party. Now he saw that his scrupulousness was less an expression of honesty than of pride. He was in one of those moods when he judged himself far more harshly than he would have judged another man in his own position, when he lost faith in the sincerity of any of his motives. However, he thought, now he had taken his stand he could maintain it. Those fellows would give him a hard fight; but he was ready for it. His resentment was aroused; he returned to his desk with new energy, as if the contest were already begun. A few minutes later Michael entered with a letter. “Sam just brought this, sir,” he said, and left the room. Briggs glanced at the address and recognized Franklin West’s handwriting. He tore open the letter hastily. He had a feeling that it might contain disagreeable news. His eyes ran swiftly over the lines. “Your man has come just as I am leaving for Boston. Sorry I can’t go back with him. I came over to New York for only a few hours. But I’ll be back in three or four days, when, of course, I shall give myself the pleasure of seeing you. Congratulations on your nomination, if you will accept congratulations on a dead sure thing.” For a moment Briggs had a sensation of chill. It was like a premonition. Was it possible that Franklin West was going back on him, too? But he put the thought aside as absurd. It would not have occurred to him if he were not tired out and if he had not had that interview with the heelers. Still, it was odd that West should have hurried through New York without calling. It would have been simple and natural for him to stop for breakfast at the house where he had so often received hospitality. Still, Briggs thought, philosophically, it was a relief not to be obliged to see him. For the rest of the morning, however, he felt uncomfortable. At luncheon he had an impulse to speak of West to his wife, but he checked it. He found it hard to start any new subject with her now. XVII