A swirl of soft skirts, the sharp slam of a door, and Caleb Conover, aghast, wordless with dismay stood alone on the little moon-lit porch. For a full minute he stood there, dumbfounded. Then, from somewhere in the darkness beyond the closed door, came faintly the sound of sobbing. Rending, heartbroken sobs that brought a lump to his own throat. “Dey!” he called, frantically miserable, “Dey!” He tried the locked door, and rapped as loudly as he dared upon its panels. The sobbing died away. For an hour Conover waited; alternately whispering the girl’s name and tapping appealingly for admittance. But the house remained silent. At length with a despairing growl he turned away. “Now what in blazes could a’ made her act like that?” he pondered, half-aloud. “Gee, but I’d rather be horsewhipped than make that kid cry! An’ I s’pose,” he went on as he passed out of the gate, “I s’pose ’bout this time Letty Standish an’ Caine are sayin’ goodnight, all slushly like, an’ grinnin’ at each other, like a couple of measly love-birds.” He looked back once more at the dark house; sighed noisily, and started homeward. A passing policeman recognized him; and, in deference to the Fighter’s fast-growing political power, so far unbent as to say: “Good evenin’, Mr. Conover. Fine night, ain’t it? Are--?” “Oh, go to hell!” snarled Caleb. CHAPTER XIV CALEB CONOVER TAKES AN AFTERNOON OFF The Fighter made life a burden, next day, for the office staff of the C. G. & X. An electric aura of uneasiness pervaded the big station--the indefinable, wordless something that gives warning to the most remote denizens of every office when the “boss” is out of temper. Yet Caleb, as it happened, was not out of temper. He was merely unhappy. The effect, to casual observers, was the same as on the not very rare days of his rages. But, instead of storming up and down his office as on the latter occasions, Caleb merely sulked in his desk chair, chewed countless cigars, and roused himself every few minutes to make toil a horror for such luckless subordinates as just then chanced to impress their existence on his mind. Hence the President’s private office was shunned like a pest-house by everyone who could avoid going thither. The office boy, official martyr of the day, shook visibly as he sidled into the room, about three that afternoon, and laid on his chief’s desk a sealed, unstamped envelope. Conover’s scowl vanished as he noted the handwriting. The office boy breathed deeper and his knees grew firm. “Any answer?” asked Conover; and for the first time since his arrival his voice sounded scarcely more menacing than that of a sick bear. “No, sir!” piped the youth with a propitiatory grin. “I ast the mes’nger an’ he said--” “Clear out!” mumbled Caleb, his eyes and mind fixed on the sheet he had clumsily withdrawn from the envelope.