The woman huddled in her corner until eleven o’clock, and then Gilman, happening into her quarter of the room, asked her what she wanted, listening with official respect for her reply. It was an old story to him. When she told him he smiled a strange smile and turned away. At noon the governor ran the gauntlet of the waiting crowd and gained the sanctuary of his private office. Once there, breathing a sigh of relief, he stood for a moment in one of the tall windows looking out upon the smooth lawns stretching lazily in the sun, and rolling away to the elms surrounding the state house. He was a tall man and strong. If he had a physical fault, it was that he carried his head too low, denoting him a thinker, but if his gaze was fixed upon the earth, his thoughts were in the stars. Presently he shook his splendid head vigorously, wrapped his long coat determinedly about him, and settled himself at his desk. Gilman entered, bearing a pile of papers demanding the governor’s personal attention, but the morning conference was very brief on this day. As Gilman turned to go, the governor said: “I desire to be alone to-day. I have that speech of acceptance to write. If Handy comes, send him in, but no one else.” Gilman laid his hand upon the door-knob and the governor asked: “No one of importance out there, is there?” “No,” said Gilman. “There’s a woman--what do you think she wants?” “A pardon, of course.” “Yes, but for whom? You’d never guess in a thousand years.” Gilman was smiling. “Then tell me.” “Tom Whalen!” Gilman laughed at the humor of it. The governor’s features relaxed with a smile, but quickly his brow contracted again, and he said: “Well--poor things--I pity them. I could wash my hands in women’s tears every week.” “Well,” said Gilman, opening the door, “I told her she could see you. I’ll slide her out.” The governor bent to his desk, but just as the door was closing he called: “Oh, Gilman!” Gilman stopped. “Don’t do that--tell her I’ll see her after a while.” Gilman, as he returned to his desk, smiled and shook his head at the governor’s weakness. Thomas Whalen was a life convict in the penitentiary. The crime was committed on the night of the election at which John Chatham had been chosen chief executive of his state. Whalen was a boss in the nineteenth ward and a Chatham man. The campaign had developed such bitterness that Whalen found it necessary to name himself a judge of election in the fourth precinct of his ward. Many times during the day blue patrol wagons had rolled into the precinct.