The governor thanked her and turned away. The woman opened the door wide and watched him as he retreated down the moist brick walk. At the street he paused. Then he turned on toward Second Street. The woman closed the door, and her key grated in the lock. The governor strode on into Second Street, past the residence of the Bishop of Springfield, standing behind white pillars deep in its naked grove, past St. Agatha’s Seminary sleeping in its gloom, until he reached the state house. The brooding building loomed above him, dark and dour, heaving its great gray dome into the grim night. Huge granite pillars lifted themselves above him, he was lost in the shades of the lofty portico. He unlocked and pushed open the heavy door. The great marble corridors were dark and echoed to the touch of his heel upon the stones. In the wide rotunda, under the enormous dome, thick with billowing gloom, a janitor, the people’s solitary night watch, slept profoundly in his chair, his mouth open, his white beard upon his breast. His gossips had departed. Their deserted chairs stood aimlessly about. He had finished the nightly recital of the strenuous part he had borne in the great rebellion, and he slumbered, his snores echoing in the monstrous inverted bowl above him. The governor ascended to the floor above, and turned down the north corridor. A golden bar of light was thrown across the marble floor. It streamed from the open door of the state treasury. The governor quickened his steps. He heard the lunge of huge bolts as they were tumbled home. He heard the dull spin of a combination lock, and as he reached the treasury two men were emerging from the dark vaults. “Thank God, that’s--” The sentence was lost in the mouth of the attorney-general of the state of Illinois, who stood with dropping jaw staring at the governor. The attorney-general stood motionless, and then plunged a hand with three pieces of paper into an outer pocket of his overcoat. Mendenhall stood behind him, a flame flashing over his face. The governor was the first one to speak. “Good evening, gentlemen,” he said. The two men did not reply, and the governor spoke again. “Under the law, gentlemen,” he said, “the duty devolves upon me of closing and locking the treasury and temporarily assuming possession of it.” Still the men did not reply. The tissues of Grigsby’s face had become flaccid, and a greenish shade had overspread them. His eyes had contracted to sharp points under angry brows. The governor scrutinized the two men closely, as he advanced, and said, speaking in a calm tone: “And so, if you gentlemen have concluded your business”--he paused--“I shall proceed to the execution of that duty.” “I am,” he added, a moment afterward, “perhaps fortunate in finding you here, Mr. Mendenhall. You may be able to assist me.”