As he entered the old building now he was thinking of the face of the girl he had just left, with its brilliant beauty and flashing youth. "Why not?" he said to himself. "She has birth and breeding, but I can match them with things the world counts as high. I've never failed yet to get what I wanted--if I wanted it enough!" His thoughts recurred to the trial and to Harry Sevier. "Curious that nobody seemed to guess what the matter was--none but me. But I know what that look back of his eyes meant. The young fool! To have that gift--every thing right in his hand--and then to throw it away. For that's what it will come to, sure as fate, in the end!" A hand fell upon his shoulder. It was Lawrence Treadwell, the attorney, and he followed the latter into a private room and sat down. "Have you got the new committee list?" he asked, without preamble. For answer the other took a closely written paper from his pocket and handed it over. "Senator Colby sent it down by his secretary this morning." Craig drew his chair to the table and began to make pencilled changes and corrections, his hand moving swiftly and unhesitatingly. "There," he said, returning it. "That will be better. Let the senator have it back to-morrow." He sat a moment silent, his strong white fingers drumming on the table. "By the way, is this young Sevier likely to take a hand in the next campaign?" "I don't know," replied the other. "I've always expected him to burst into politics some day. He has a curious hold on people--a wonderful magnetism. To-day's is the first jury case I've ever known him to lose. He as well as let it go by default. How he came to handle it so beats me!" Craig might have enlightened him, but he did not. "I've concluded we don't want him," he said. "He's uneven: the trial to-day proved that. Besides, he's too high-chinned--we can't depend on his type to obey orders. We are coming to a big fight and we want the docks clear. No overtures to him. We must cut out every man whose absolute footing we can't count on till the day of judgment." The attorney lit a cigar and regarded its blue haze thoughtfully before he answered. "All right," he agreed. "I should have picked him for good material. But you're the doctor." Meanwhile the carriage was whirling Echo Allen over the darkening asphalt. The tired night lay still, watching under dusky lids, the moon, a great blown magnolia, floating in the limpid sky. As the horses pounded on, the coachman's voice broke in upon her revery: "Reck'n Marse Harry done got dat man clar, Miss Echo, lak he allus do?" She drew her furs closer about her throat with a little gesture as though dismissing a baffling problem. "No, 'Lige; not this time."