week longer he went
on his way and did not think of them. His days were filled with work and
it was easy to leave disturbing thoughts alone; what was not easy was to
consider them judicially.

At last Galt spoke of the matter, and he could not refuse to listen.

"By the way, I am hearing a good deal about that Battle pardon," Galt
said. "You are looking into the matter, I suppose?"

The other shook his head.

"I have not done so as yet," he answered. "I am waiting."

"Don't wait too long or the poor devil may apply higher. He's ill, I
believe, and if he insists on returning to the State, as they say he
will, the law can't help but arrest him. It's a sad case. So far as I
can see he was a catspaw for the real criminal and didn't have sense
enough to hold on to a share of the money after he sold himself. His
sister has been to see you, hasn't she? She's a superb woman, and it was
a good day for Dudley Webb when he married her."

He looked up inquiringly.

"Ah, what were you saying?" asked the governor.

That night he locked himself in with the papers and plunged into the
case. He read and reread each written word until he was in possession of
the minutest detail. In another instance he knew that the reasons for
granting the pardon would have seemed sufficient, and he would probably
have had it made out at once. As it was, he admitted the force of the
appeal, but something stronger than himself held him back. Above the
name before him he saw the girlish face of the man he hated--saw it
accusing, defying, beseeching--and beyond it he saw the gray road and
the solitary star above the sunset. In the silence his own voice echoed,
"As for him--may God, in His mercy, damn him."

He locked the papers away again. "I cannot do it," he said.

Several days later he sent for a member of the legislature from the town
where the crime was committed. He questioned him closely, but without
result--the people up there were tired of it, the man said--at first
they had been wrought up, but six years is a long time, and they didn't
care much about it now. As the governor closed the interview he realised
that he had hoped a bitter hope that his revenge might be justified.
When the door had shut, he went back to the case again, and again he
left it. "It ought to be done, but, God help me, I cannot do it," he
said.

The next morning, while he was at work in his office in the Capitol, his
secretary came in to tell him that Miss Chris