And young Sam was worthy of the people’s choice. Himself a man of forty, motherless from childhood, and brought up sensibly and well by his father, he listened gravely to the paternal plans for the campaign. But there were other candidates, and not without some strong and definite influences could the end be attained. Wherefore, Mr. Appleby was quite as much interested as his secretary in the letter which was in the morning’s mail. “Any word from Sycamore Ridge?” he asked, as he came into the big, cheerful office and nodded a kindly good-morning to his two assistants. “Yes, and a good word,” returned Keefe, smiling. “It says: ‘Come.’” The secretary’s attitude toward his employer, though deferential and respectful, was marked by a touch of good-fellowship—a not unnatural outgrowth of a long term of confidential relations between them. Keefe had made himself invaluable to Samuel Appleby and both men knew it. So, as one had no desire to presume on the fact and the other no wish to ignore it, serenity reigned in the well-ordered and well-appointed offices of the ex-governor. Even the light-haired, light-hearted and light-headed Genevieve couldn’t disturb the even tenor of the routine. If she could have, she would have been fired. Though not a handsome man, not even to be called distinguished looking, Samuel Appleby gave an impression of power. His strong, lean face betokened obdurate determination and implacable will. Its deep-graven lines were the result of meeting many obstacles and surmounting most of them. And at sixty-two, the hale and hearty frame and the alert, efficient manner made the man seem years younger. “You know the conditions on which Wheeler lives in that house?” Appleby asked, as he looked over the top of the letter at Keefe. “No, sir.” “Well, it’s this way. But, no—I’ll not give you the story now. We’re going down there—to-day.” “The whole tribe?” asked Keefe, briefly. “Yes; all three of us. Be ready, Miss Lane, please, at three-thirty.” “Yes, sir,” said Genevieve, reaching for her vanity-box. “And now, Keefe, as to young Sam,” Appleby went on, running his fingers through his thick, iron-gray mane. “If he can put it over, or if I can put it over for him, it will be only with the help of Dan Wheeler.” “Is Wheeler willing to help?” “Probably not. He must be made willing. I can do it—I think—unless he turns stubborn. I know Wheeler—if he turns stubborn—well, Balaam’s historic quadruped had nothing on him!” “Does Mr. Wheeler know Sam?” “No; and it wouldn’t matter either way if he did. It’s the platform Wheeler stands on. If I can keep him in ignorance of that one plank——” “You can’t.” “I know it—confound it! He opposed my election on that one point—he’ll oppose Sam’s for the same reason, I know.” “Where do I come in?” “In a general way, I want your help. Wheeler’s wife and daughter are attractive, and you might manage to interest them and maybe sway their sympathies toward Sam——”