Over at the executive mansion, Governor Chatham and his private secretary were at dinner when the telegram came. The governor took the yellow envelope from the butler’s tray and tore it open. When he had read the message he passed it over without a word to Gilman. The private secretary’s eyes widened as he read it, and he exclaimed: “Jim Lockhart dead!” William, the black butler, stirred uneasily. The governor bent forward, and lifted his coffee to his lips. Gilman laid the despatch beside his plate, and, still looking at it, began to pinch the golden tip of a cigarette. William slid noiselessly to his side with a match. When Gilman had lighted his cigarette he said: “Poor Jim!” The governor responded: “Yes, poor Jim.” A strange quality in the governor’s tone gave expression to something more than sadness. His face was somber, immobile, inscrutable. He dropped his napkin, and, without lighting his cigar, though William stood by, shading the little flame of the ready match with his pale palm, he rose and went slowly into the library. About the walls were his beloved books. On the broad, heavy table of Flemish oak a shaded lamp rose over the magazines, the pamphlets, the scattered books and the Chicago newspapers, which reach Springfield at noon. In the wide chimney--over which is carved those words from the _Benedicte_, “Oh, ye Fire and Heat, Bless ye the Lord”--a brazier of Sangamon County coal was blazing. Outside a cold November rain was driving against the tall windows of the mansion. The governor sank into a deep leather chair. He supported his head in his hand and gazed into the fire. Gilman followed, and seating himself, likewise fell into a melancholy reverie. The silence within, and the wind sweeping the rain back and forth like a broom without, oppressed him. He was a young man. Once or twice he looked at the governor, and then the silence, the wind and the rain forced him to speak. “He seemed to be in perfect health when he went away Wednesday,” he said. The silence deepened. The wind threshed the trees and the rain drenched the windows anew. Gilman spoke again. He said: “The party’s lost a good man.” “And I have lost another friend,” said the governor. He was growing old. Without moving, still gazing deeply into the coals, after a little minute, he added: “He was the most generous man I ever knew.” “Yes; and I believe, after all, when the time came, he would have been with you for the renomination.” The governor stretched out his hand to stay Gilman’s speech. “I was not thinking of that, Leonard.” The governor did this gently, as he did all things. Gilman’s face reddened--for the fire was growing hot--and silence fell again between them. Gilman felt the silence. He flung his cigarette into the fire. Then he rose. “Guess I’ll go over to the Leland,” he said. “Some of the boys may have particulars.” The governor nodded acquiescence, but as Gilman reached the door that leads into the northwest drawing-room, he spoke: