The clock in the hall of the executive mansion had struck the half-hour after midnight, and the governor was descending the stairs in a gray bath-robe and slippers. The old house was dark and still. Even the room occupied by Gilman, who should, at that hour, have been reading the magazines in bed, showed no light. The governor, softly treading, entered the library. The last embers of the fire were smouldering. The governor lighted the lamp, and in the circle of soft light it spread on the library table, he bent over a book, his glasses on his nose, their cord hanging down into his lap. He turned the leaves of the book. It was not _The Thoughts of Marcus Aurelius_. It was the second volume of _The Revised Statutes of Illinois_, a stupid work which many men consult, laboriously, far into the night. He softly rustled over the leaves until he found chapter one hundred and thirty. He ran his finger down the pages till it stopped at section sixteen. And then he read very slowly: “In case of the death of the treasurer, it shall be the duty of the governor to take possession of the office of such treasurer and cause the vaults thereof to be closed and securely locked, and so remain until--” He read the words again, and again a third time, and yet again. He closed the book, put out the lamp and slowly felt his way back up the stairs. Ten minutes later he descended again, and groping in the hall, drew a greatcoat over his broad shoulders, covered his head with the slouch hat he wore when he went down into southern Illinois, and let himself out of the wide front door. The asphalt driveway that flings its long curve through the grounds of the gubernatorial residence from Fifth Street to Fourth, gleamed like the surface of a river at night. The rain no longer fell, but the trees dripped dismally. Across the low night sky black clouds were flying. The governor walked down the driveway to the big iron gates at Fourth Street, whose watered surface as far as he could see, wavered under the electric lights at the crossings. The governor turned at Jackson Street and walked down the sleeping little avenue toward Second Street. Before a low brown house trickling its eaves behind two sentinel cedars, he halted. He went up the moist brick walk, and pulled the white bell-knob. The bell jangled harshly upon the sleeping stillness. The jangling trembled away. He rang again. There was a reluctant stir within and a voice, a scared woman’s voice, said: “Who’s there?” “The governor,” he responded. “Is Mr. Mendenhall at home?” The woman slid back bolts and opened the door circumspectly. She thrust out a towsled head and shoulders wrapped in a shawl. The governor heard a baby’s cry. The woman’s teeth chattered with nervousness and the cold. “No, sir; he hasn’t got in yet.”