A monster limousine with curtains drawn waited at the curb, and on the front seat sat a figure at whose pallid face and red-rimmed eyes Harry gazed without a start but with a strange sensation of fitness. Here indeed was the real thief who had shot Craig, but leagued now with his enemy to his undoing! Sitting in the dark interior, as the car sped along with its silent company, Harry remembered another ride of two years before, when he had flung through the night flying from his own conscience, incarnate in the figure that now rode beside the chauffeur. Was he never to lay that old ghost? He noted dully that the streets were jostling with eager throngs which made compact eddies here and there before some newspaper bulletin-board or flaring club-window which displayed the reports of the voting, as, township by township, county by county, the tally came in. On one the legend was being posted, "_Sevier Leads_," and a muffled cheer was wafted after. He shut his eyes. Almost he could have thought himself in the grip of some _outré_, high-coloured dream--but he knew that it was no dream. The limousine slowed and stopped. Harry turned his head as the door opened; they were at the gate of Midfields. As they neared the upper end of the drive, a man rose from the steps and came toward them. It was Lawrence Treadwell. He started as if he had been stung at sight of the masked and striped figure between its stolid escort. He turned on Craig, his eyes blazing with amazement and anger. "My God!" he cried. "You haven't dared--but this is infamous. It's an outrage! You--" "Keep your place!" ground Craig. "I tell you I know what I'm doing!" "It's my private opinion you're as crazy as a March hare," retorted the other, "but if you _are_ right, I'll have nothing to do with it, do you understand? Nothing! I don't care _what_ your damned evidence is!" Craig turned his back on him and led the way up the steps, and after an instant's hesitation Treadwell followed. Through an open window Harry glimpsed the interior of the east room, dismantled now for the evening's strenuous occupation, where several masculine figures were grouped about a table, excitedly working over charts, and he could hear the irritant buzz of the telephone as it signalled the bulletins that were beginning now to pour into the busy hotel suite at the other end of the wire. Craig did not ring at the big door but led the way along the porch to a French-window, of the library, which stood ajar. He peered into it, then with an exclamation of satisfaction motioned the two attendants back, said a low word to Paddy the Brick at his heels, and flung the window open. Sevier entered, Craig and his stool-pigeon next. Treadwell followed and drew the window to behind him. CHAPTER XLVII WITH HIS BACK TO THE WALL