be more spontaneous. He
knew that he was personally responsible for the present enforcement;
he believed that because of it, Henry Devereux didn't have a
Chinaman's chance; he knew that if Mirabelle got her legacy, she would
have Mr. Mix to thank for it. But Henry was too cheerful, and
Mirabelle was too coy, and the two facts didn't co-ordinate.

Certainly there was no finesse in hailing Mirabelle as an heiress
until Henry's failure was more definitely placarded. To be sure, she
had plenty of money now, and she was spending it like water, but he
knew that it included the income from the whole Starkweather estate.
She probably had--oh, a hundred thousand or more of her own. And that
wasn't enough. Yes, it was time for Mr. Mix to think ahead; he had
identified himself so thoroughly with the League that he couldn't
easily withdraw, and Mirabelle still held his note. Of course, if the
League could furnish him with a stepping-stone to the Mayoralty, or
the presidency of Council, Mr. Mix didn't care to withdraw from it
anyway; nor would he falter in his allegiance as long as he had a
chance at an heiress. He wished that Henry would show fight, but Henry
hadn't even joined the Exhibitors Association. It was so much easier
to fight when the other fellow offered resistance. Henry merely
smiled; you couldn't tell whether he were despondent or not. But if he
wouldn't fight, there was always the thin possibility that he might be
satisfied with his progress. And that would be unfortunate for Mr.
Mix.

There was something else; suppose Mirabelle got her legacy, and Mr.
Mix volunteered to share it with her. He was reasonably confident that
she would consent; her symptoms were already on the surface. But how,
in such event, could Mr. Mix regulate the habits which were so
precious to him? How could he hide his fondness for his cigar, and his
night-cap, his predilection for burlesque shows and boxing bouts and
blonde stenographers? It was difficult enough, even now, and he had
eaten enough trochees and coffee beans to sink a frigate, and he had
been able only once to get away to New York--"to clean up his
affairs." How could he manage his alternative self when Mirabelle had
him under constant and intimate supervision?

Still, all that could be arranged. For twenty years he had gone to New
York, regularly, on irregular business and not a soul in town was any
the wiser; it was simply necessary to discover what "business" could
summon h