e been going a little too far. It ain't good
for an organization to win always."

"Victor Dorn seemed to be sure--absolutely sure," said Hull. "And he's
pretty shrewd at politics--isn't he?"

"Don't worry about him, I tell you," replied Kelly.

The sudden hardening of his voice and of his never notably soft face
was tribute stronger than any words to Dorn's ability as a politician,
to his power as an antagonist. Davy felt a sinister intent--and he
knew that Dick Kelly had risen because he would stop at nothing. He
was as eager to get away from the boss as the boss was to be rid of
him. The intrusion of a henchman, to whom Kelly had no doubt signaled,
gave him the excuse. As soon as he had turned from the City Hall into
Morton Street he slackened to as slow a walk as his length of leg would
permit. Moving along, absorbed in uncomfortable thoughts, he startled
violently when he heard Selma Gordon's voice:

"How d'you do, Mr. Hull? I was hoping I'd see you to-day."

She was standing before him--the same fascinating embodiment of life
and health and untamed energy; the direct, honest glance.

"I want to talk to you," she went on, "and I can't, walking beside you.
You're far too tall. Come into the park and we'll sit on that bench
under the big maple."

He had mechanically lifted his hat, but he had not spoken. He did not
find words until they were seated side by side, and then all he could
say was:

"I'm very glad to see you again--very glad, indeed."

In fact, he was the reverse of glad, for he was afraid of her, afraid
of himself when under the spell of her presence. He who prided himself
on his self-control, he could not account for the effect this girl had
upon him. As he sat there beside her the impulse Jane Hastings had so
adroitly checked came surging back. He had believed, had hoped it was
gone for good and all. He found that in its mysterious hiding place it
had been gaining strength. Quite clearly he saw how absurd was the
idea of making this girl his wife--he tall and she not much above the
bend of his elbow; he conventional, and she the incarnation of
passionate revolt against the restraints of class and form and custom
which he not only conformed to but religiously believed in. And she
set stirring in him all kinds of vague, wild longings to run amuck
socially and politically--longings that, if indulged, would ruin him
for any career worthy of the name.

He stood up. "I must go--I real