The woman nervously pleated her handkerchief, fearing to begin. “You must excuse me,” she said presently, “I can not tell my story very well. I do not come here for mercy or anything like that. It is only a matter of justice.” Had it not been for the gloom, she might have seen a smile steal over the face of the dark figure at the desk. Once plunged into her narrative, her words flowed rapidly, until--suddenly she ceased to speak. “That was five years ago,” she said, her voice dropping to a sadly reminiscent whisper. “We were to have been married that spring, but--I would rather not tell the rest.” The woman probably felt her cheeks flush with warmth. The governor could hear her quick breathing. In a minute he said kindly: “Well?” The woman hesitated an instant, and then fairly blurted out the rest of her tale. The governor, through the darkness, saw the woman lean, panting, toward him. Convulsively she pressed her hands to her face. She collapsed in tears. When her sobs became more regular, though still labored, the governor said: “And Whalen--he knew this?” “He must have known.” “Then why did he not tell?” The woman hung her head and said, in a low voice: “I was mistaken, sir. The other woman lied.” “Ah, I see.” The governor turned and looked out of the windows. The old-fashioned iron lamps on the broad steps that led up to the state house were blinking in the dark trees, and the arc light swinging in the street swayed the shadows of their foliage back and forth on the white walks. A flash of heat lightning quivered over the purple outlines of the elms. The governor sat for a long time in somber silence. The woman could hear the ticking of his watch. Presently he drew it from his pocket and struck a match. “It is growing late,” he said. “The tale you tell is a very remarkable tale. My time is so fully occupied that it will be impossible for me to devote any thought to it just now. If you will leave your address with my secretary I shall communicate with you. Meanwhile--do not talk.” When the private secretary had conducted the woman from the room the governor went to his window. The voices of the June night floated up to him, but he no longer heard their music. For the second time, at the name of Whalen, and even in the darkness, there swept over his face the shadow of the passing of a great ambition.