“Look here, Jennings,” said Grigsby, straightening up and glaring at the secretary of state, “Chatham’s got all you fellows hypnotized. You think he’s a little tin god, that he’s incapable of doing a mean act, of throwing a friend down, or anything of that sort. I tell you I know him better than all of you do. He and I used to be close, thicker’n--” “You wasn’t borrowin’ money out o’ the state treasury them days, though, was you, Bill?” interrupted Jennings. Grigsby colored. “No, you was somethin’ of a reformer yourself.” Grigsby colored more deeply. “An’ as fer the throwin’ down--we know who done the heft o’ that. Course I don’t care--it suits me--but give a houn’ his dues.” Grigsby’s color had changed by swift gradations of tone to splenetic blackness. He broke in upon Jennings’ indictment of him, and his defense of the governor: “Oh, drop that--let’s talk business. I tell you I know Chatham, and I ain’t goin’ to put myself in his hands.” He drew out his watch and opened it. “It’s half-past eight now, and he doubtless knows Lockhart’s dead--probably he’s got the treasury sealed.” Jennings’ brow was gathered once more in wrinkles that indicated thought. His face rapidly assumed an expression of determination. Presently he rose. “Bill,” he said, “I’m goin’ to do somethin’ fer you I wouldn’t do fer any other livin’ man.” Grigsby raised an appealing, yearning face. “Yest’day I deposited in Gregory’s bank over at Decatur twenty-four thousand dollars. It’s the fees received in my office durin’ the last quarter. It’s lucky fer you they was unusually large--” “Yes,” said Grigsby, and his expression, expectant and hopeful a moment before, clouded, “but it’s in Decatur, and we’re in Springfield and we’ve got to have it now, to-night, if it’s goin’ to do us any good. What the devil did you want to deposit it in Gregory’s bank for?” “Because,” replied Jennings, “Gregory’s rich, and a contributor, an’ he can deliver Macon County, and we’ll want Macon County’s ten votes, if I hain’t mistaken, one of these days. But never mind that now--it’s the on’y thing we can do.” Jennings looked at his watch. “It’s now twenty-five till nine. A train goes out on the Wabash at nine-five. I’ll send Hennessey over on that train with a note to Gregory, an’ a check. He can get twenty thousand, an’ ketch a train back ’bout eleven-twenty, I think, anyway--that train that gets here at twelve-forty. You can take the money, put it back in the treasury, ’fore the governor seals ’er up, an’--” Grigsby sprang toward Jennings and seized his hand. “Hank, you’re the best friend I ever had,” he cried, and his eyes glistened. “Aw, don’t talk like that,” said Jennings awkwardly. “But can we trust Hennessey?” said Grigsby, the next instant, his eyes dilating, his hand suddenly dropping by his side. “Hell, we’ve got to,” said Jennings. Then he strode across the room and turned the old-fashioned brass bell-pull.