nd-bag savagely into the hand of
the nearest porter.

"Isn't that just my infernal luck!" he lamented. Then: "Give them my
love, and tell them I hope they will stay until I get back."

The senator rose and shook hands with the departing debater. "Shall I
say that to both of 'em?" he asked, with the quizzical smile which Evan
was learning to expect.

"Yes; to both of them, if you like--only I suppose Mrs. Blount will hold
it against me. Good-night and good-by. I'll be back day after to-morrow,
if the Ophir miners don't mob me."

It was only a few minutes after Evan Blount's train had steamed
Ophir-ward out of the Sierra Avenue station that a dust-covered
touring-car drew up at the curb in front of the Inter-Mountain, and the
same porter who had put Blount's hand-bag into the taxicab opened the
tonneau door for two ladies in muffling motor-coats and heavy veils.

The senator met the two late travellers in the vestibule, and while the
three were waiting for an elevator a rapid fire of low-toned question
and answer passed between husband and wife.

"You got Evan out of the way?" whispered the wife.

The husband nodded. "That was easy. I passed the word to Steuchfield,
and he helped out on that--invited Evan to come to Ophir to speak in a
joint debate. He left on the night train."

"And Hathaway? Will he be here?"

"He is here. Gantry has turned him down, according to instructions, and
he is clawing about in the air, trying to get a fresh hold. I bluffed
him; told him he'd have to make his peace with you for something, I
didn't know what, before I could talk to him."

Miss Anners was watching the elevator signal glow as the car descended,
and the wife's voice sank to a still lower whisper.

"He will be at the Weatherfords'?" she inquired eagerly.

"He is right sure to be; I told him you would be there."

The small plotter nodded approval.

"Give us half an hour to dress, and have the car ready," she directed;
and then the senator put the two into the elevator and turned away to
finish his cigar.

X

IN THE HERBARIUM

The Weatherfords, multimillionaire mine-people, and so newly rich that
the crisp bank-notes fairly crackled when Mrs. Weatherford spent them,
kept their lackeyed and liveried state in a castle-like mansion in Mesa
Circle, the most expensive, if not the most aristocratic,
no-thoroughfare of the capital city. Weatherford, the father, egged on
by Mrs. Weatherford, had political aspirat