“Yes, I did it. I killed Brokoski.” Her strength failed her. She sobbed convulsively. “Yes--I--did--it,” she repeated. “I--did--it.” Gilman stared in wonder. Here, then, was the person who had stood in the alley beneath the window that night, whose footprints would have led him to the solution of his mystery, to the end of his clever chain. The problem of her motive for slaying Brokoski alone remained. He longed to ask her, but she had collapsed unconscious in her chair. Turning to the governor he implored light. A word informed him of the accidental killing of Brokoski by a jealous woman who was trying to shoot his vis-à-vis. Then he demanded in tones reproachful: “Why did you not tell me this?” “Because,” the man quietly responded, “I do not war on women.” The door whose latch had clicked had opened wide, and William Handy entered, smiling. Governor Chatham was assorting papers on his desk, as a man would whose routine work had received a trifling interruption. Handy remained on his feet. “John,” he said, “John, I take off my hat to you. I admire your nerve. I recognized it years ago, that day you presided over our convention in the old seventh district--remember?--the day you turned me down so hard. Remember?” The governor smiled. “This ain’t flattery,” said Handy, seating himself in a leather chair. “You’re not only all I’ve said, you’re a devil of a good fellow to boot.” Handy spoke seldom. He never wrote letters, but sent word, according to an ancient maxim uttered by one of the political fathers. But when he did speak, he spoke bluntly, in the same tone in which he would have called a man a liar. The governor raised his hand to stay Handy’s compliments. “Yes, John,” he persisted. “You’re a hell of a good fellow, but,” he added, “you’re a damn poor politician.” There was the faintest shadow of a smile on the governor’s face. Handy closed his eyes until they were the merest slits. He puffed his cigar back to life. His head was wrapped in scarfs of smoke. “When does the grand jury sit?” he inquired, after a time. “Not till the December term.” “We can have a special one impaneled. I’ll have Donnelly call it.” Donnelly was a judge of dignity and erudition, and Handy spoke of him as if he were his hired man, which he was. “The boys’ll be glad to get Tom back in the nineteenth. O’Rourke says--” “Look here, Handy,” said the governor, whirling about in his chair, and speaking as sharply as a precinct captain at a primary. “I want none of Tom Whalen’s work in the nineteenth--not while I’m running for governor. But then,” he added gravely, “he’s only going back to the nineteenth to die.” Handy grunted. “Well, I’ll have Fitzgerald pinch the girl anyway, and keep her in the Division Street station till after election.”