In the edge of the village of Burnside the Duke ordered a halt, and stepped down from the carriage. The evening had settled in and it was dark under the elms. "Here's five dollars, brother. You've used us all right, and now so long to you." "But I hain't got you to nowhere yet!" protested the farmer. He had finally decided in his own mind that these were railroad managers planning projects, with an eye on his own farm. He wanted to carry them where he could exhibit them to some one who could inform him. But the Duke promptly drew Harlan along into the shadows, and a farmer hampered with a two-seated carriage is not equipped for the trail. They heard the complaining squeal of iron against iron as he turned to go back home. "We've come here to call on a man," stated the Duke, after they had walked for a little time. "On ex-Governor Waymouth, I suppose," Harlan suggested, quietly. The old man chuckled. "How long have you been suspecting that?" "Ever since I heard Burnside mentioned, of course." "Good! You guessed and kept still about it. You've got the makings of a politician, and you are learning fast. Now what do you suppose I'm sneaking up on Varden Waymouth in this way for?" "You said I'd see for myself when the time came. I'm in no hurry, grandfather." The Duke patted Harlan's shoulder. "You're one of my kind, that's sure, boy. I haven't got to put any patent time-lock onto your tongue. And I can't say that of many chaps in this State. You're a safe man to have along. Come on!" The house was back from the street a bit--a modest mansion of brick, dignifiedly old. Tall twin columns flanked the front door and supported the roof of the porch. Harlan had never seen the residence of General Waymouth before, but that exterior seemed fitted to the man, such as he knew him to be. He admitted them himself, when they had waited a few moments after sounding alarm with the ancient knocker. Framed in the door, he was a picturesque figure. His abundant white hair hung straight down over his ears, and curled outward at the ends; his short beard was snowy, but there was healthful ruddiness on his face, and though his figure, tall above the average, stooped a bit, he walked briskly ahead of them into the library, crying delighted welcome over his shoulder. His meeting with Thelismer Thornton had been almost an embrace. "And this boosting big chap is Harlan--my grand-baby, Vard! Guess you used to see him at 'The Barracks' when he was smaller. Since then he's been trying to outgrow one of our spruce-trees." The ex-Governor gave Harlan his left hand. The empty sleeve of the right arm was pinned to the shoulder. "The old Yankee stock doesn't need a step-ladder to stand on to light the moon, so they used to say." He rolled chairs close to each other and urged them to sit, with the anxious hospitality of the old man who has grown to prize the narrowing circle of his intimates.