our hand from under that
coat or I'll break every bone in your flabby body."

Flabby was the word, morally no less than physically. Pelton quailed
under that gaze which bored into him like a gimlet. The ebbing color in
his face showed he could summon no reserve of courage sufficient to
meet it. Slowly his empty hand came forth.

"Don't get excited, Mr. Ridgway. You have mistaken my purpose, seh. I
had no intention of drawing," he stammered with a pitiable attempt at
dignity.

"Liar," retorted his merciless foe, crowding him toward the door.

"I don't care to have anything more to do with you. Our relations are
at an end, seh," quavered Pelton as he vanished into the outer once and
beat a hasty retreat to the elevator.

Ridgway returned to his chair, laughing ruefully. "I couldn't help it,
Steve. He would have it. I suppose I've made one more enemy."

"A nasty one, too. He'll stick at nothing to get even."

"We'll draw his fangs while there is still time. Get a good story in
the Sun to the effect that I quarreled with him as soon as I discovered
his connection with this mining extension bill graft. Have it in this
afternoon's edition, Steve. Better get Brayton to write it."

Steve nodded. "That's a good idea. We may make capital out of it after
all. I'll have an editorial in, too. 'We love him for the enemies he
has made.' How would that do for a heading?"

"Good. And now we'll have to look around for a candidate to put against
Mott. I'm hanged if I know where we'll find one."

Eaton had an inspiration.

"I do?"

"One that will run well, popular enough to catch the public fancy?"

"Yes."

"Who, then?"

"Waring Ridgway."

The owner of the name stared at his lieutenant in astonishment, but
slowly the fascination o the idea sank in.

"By Jove! Why not?"

CHAPTER 9. AN EVENING CALL

"Says you're to come right up, Mr. Ridgway," the bell-hop reported, and
after he had pocketed his tip, went sliding off across the polished
floor to answer another call.

The president of the Mesa Ore-producing Company turned with a
good-humored smile to the chief clerk.

"You overwork your boys, Johnson. I wasn't through with that one. I'll
have to ask you to send another up to show me the Harley suite."

They passed muster under the eye of the chief detective, and, after the
bell-boy had rung, were admitted to the private parlor where Simon
Harley lay stretched on a lounge with his wife beside him. She had been