Katherine leaned back and looked at him. Her back was toward the window, and he could see only the outline of her head. “Are you sure?” she asked slowly. “You mean--you think I'm not well, that I haven't control of myself--I do love you, Katherine, so much that I can't get along without you. You believe me, don't you? You must believe me!” “Yes,” very slowly, “I believe you.” “Then--” “I don't know what to say. I'm afraid I--Oh, don't say any more! It isn't right.” She rose suddenly as if to move away, but Harvey caught her dress and then her hand. “Katherine, you aren't going to leave me this way. Perhaps you don't want me, perhaps I have been mistaken and foolish, but I love you, and that ought to count for something.” “It does--you don't understand--” She looked out the window for a moment: the first low-lying stars were out. “Don't you suppose,” she said at last, in a labored voice, “that I have feelings? Don't you suppose that I--I don't mean that, either. You have been fighting my father--I have helped you. I have helped you to injure him, my own father. He is sick now, and I left him to-day, because--” Harvey's grasp tightened. “I have been disloyal to him, I have been dishonest--and that counts for something, too. No--we have been good friends, we can still be good friends. Perhaps, if it had been different--but it wasn't.” “You don't mean this, Katherine.” She drew her hand away and stood erect, dignified now and calm. “I am going home. I know that you love me, and I know that you will not hurt me any longer; for it does hurt me, I will tell you that.” “But I shall see you--” With an effort, he raised himself to his feet and stood, weak and giddy, leaning on the back of the chair. “I won't give you up!” “Lie down. You mustn't tire yourself. We don't know what may happen,” she steadied his arm as he sat down on the couch; “we only know what is right for us now. Good-by. I will speak to the steward.” With throbbing head Harvey sank back on the cushions. A few moments later the doctor came in. CHAPTER XXI THE TILLMAN CITY STOCK The Governor was a familiar figure in Chicago, and his presence in a hotel lobby ordinarily excited no more than a glance of curious interest from the loungers about the news stand. The sensation he caused, when he entered the office of the Great Northern on Friday afternoon, was due to the company he brought with him; for on one side walked a pale, nervous, careworn man, who was hardly recognizable as the dapper, self-contained William C. Porter, and on the other, burly as ever, and, though grave, confident as ever, was Jim Weeks. A man who was registering at the desk watched them as they stepped into an elevator, and then said to the clerk:-- “Have you got your furniture well insured? Because you can bet your life the fur will begin to fly in a few minutes.”