He paused, moved one of his hands as though to brush the possibility aside. “But it is unnecessary for me to tell you that his chief trait is a blind and unreasoning stubbornness. It betrayed him, on this occasion. He rejected my offer; refused to take the easy way out. “That was this morning. I considered. My chief concern was for the good name of Hardiston; that such a man should not be chosen Mayor. This seemed to me the simplest and least painful way to arrange his withdrawal. So I asked you to come here.” Amos drawled from the depths of his chair: “Did you fetch us here to talk us to death, Kite?” Kite smiled bitterly. “No, Amos. Be patient.” Chase was watching Wint, still with that desperate hope in his eyes. They were all watching Wint; but Wint was looking at the floor, following with his eyes the pattern in the rug. This was the end. He had just about decided that. There was in him no more will to fight. He had been a good Mayor. If they didn’t want to re-elect him--that was their affair. He would do no more. He had a sick sense of betrayal. His lips twisted in a bitter little smile. Kite addressed him directly. “So, young man, we want your withdrawal from the mayoralty race. And this whole matter will end right here.” Wint still did not lift his head. His father thought the boy was shamed; and his heart was torn. Kite asked sharply: “Come! What do you say?” Wint looked at Kite, then, for the first time; looked at him with a slow, steady, incurious gaze that made Kite twist in his chair. And he repeated, in a low voice: “You want me to withdraw?” “Exactly. Now.” Wint shook his head gently. “No,” he said, “I won’t withdraw.” Kite threw up one clenched fist in a furious gesture. “By God, if you don’t you’ll be run out of town!” “I’m in the fight,” said Wint steadily. He spoke so low they could scarce hear him. “I’m in the fight. I’ll stay.” “Then I’ll smash you, flat as a pancake. You young fool.” “Kite,” Wint murmured gently. “I don’t give a damn what you do. I’m in to stay.” Kite banged his fist on the table. “Then the whole story comes out.” “Let it come,” said Wint. “You mean you want me to tell these men here? The black shame?” “Yes,” Wint assented. “Tell them anything you please.” He lowered his eyes again, resumed his study of the carpet, puffed at his pipe. Kite stared at the boy’s bent head as though he could not believe his eyes, or his ears. He had counted so surely on Wint’s surrender; he had been so sure that Wint would yield. But Wint.... The fool sat there, passively defying him; daring him. Kite’s face twisted with a sudden furious grimace. He jerked back his head. So be it. He flung defiant eyes around the room; he said abruptly, curtly: “Very well. Here it is. This young rip is the father of Hetty Morfee’s child.” There was a moment’s terrible silence in the room. Then Jack Routt cried: “Good Lord, Kite, that can’t be! Wint’s a decent chap.”