A man but little beyond thirty, Wesley Dyker's face, which might once well have been handsome, was beginning to show that flaccid whiteness which must later light to red and glow to purple. What his mouth might have told, a crisp, short, brown mustache concealed, but the regularity of his other features lost much of its effect because of eyes that, though large and steel gray, were heavy-lidded and calculating. Nevertheless, Violet's estimate of the man was not without justification. He spoke easily and well in the voice of education; his excellently made evening clothes displayed a figure that had not yet lost its admirable lines, and even the face--to one that either had known it during its gradual changes, or to one that lacked a fund of experience for purposes of comparison--was not wanting in attraction. To the sturdy Rose, whose hand he held and who was looking at him with what she patently believed to be a tender expression, he was speaking with a certain formal politeness that was novel in the ears of the listener. "You think you can get it?" Rose was asking. "I think that I have something more than a fighting chance," replied Dyker. "What does O'Malley say?" "He is at least as liberal in his promise to me as he is in his promise to the other man." "And the big chief doesn't yip?" "My dear Rose, you should know, by this time, enough of New York politics to realize that the first qualification of a big boss is to hold his tongue, and that the present incumbent, whatever his other shortcomings, can always keep quiet as long as he has no pen in his hand." Rose freed her hand to pour the wine. "May I smoke?" asked Dyker. "You always ask me that, and you always know you can." He bowed and, drawing a cigarette from a plain gun-metal case, lighted it. "Of course," he pursued, "I expect to win--I always expect to win, because failure may fight its way to a perch on any man's banner, but it's sure to lodge on the standard of the man that sits and waits for it. But I can't be sure of O'Malley." "I guess whatever headquarters orders will go with him, all right." "On the surface, perhaps; but, if he wants to, he can have his own candidate run on an independent ticket, and then he can quietly knife me at the polls." "Would he have the nerve?" "It is precisely what he did election before last. I am sure of that, and yet nobody has ever been able to prove it. That is where I look for your help." Rose took his hand again, and pressed it reassuringly. "I always take care of my friends," she smiled, "and you sure have been good to me. Where do I come in on this game?" "Just yet you don't have to come in at all. It may be that everything will be honest and above-board--I trust it will--and in that case you need not disturb yourself." "But if it ain't?"