patiently away. Clerks were passing to and fro along
the hall between the office of the adjutant-general and their desks.
Some powerful but subdued excitement pervaded the building. Watchers of
the strikers had noted the increasing number of officers in civilian
dress long after the usual business hours, and Elmendorf, quick to take
the alarm, had hastened thither to ferret out the cause. Vain his effort
to communicate with his one victim. He was at his desk, and a vigilant
ex-sergeant-major of cavalry scowled at the would-be intruder and told
him visitors could not enter the clerks' rooms. Vain his effort to
extract news along the corridors. No man seemed to know why so many of
them were there. Perplexed, he rushed back to his associates, the
strike-leaders. "Are you sure they're stanch at Springfield?" he asked;
"sure they haven't asked for aid from Washington?" The idea was laughed
to scorn.

"The governor is with us to the bitter end," was the loud boast of
prominent sympathizers, "and until he touches the button no power in or
out of Illinois can stand between us and victory. To-morrow we lock the
lines from Pittsburg to the Pacific."

Exultant, he sprang into a cab and drove to the north side. It was late
at night, but he had his latch-key. A bath, a few hours' rest, a change
of linen, and he would issue forth on the morrow refreshed, invigorated,
ready to launch his shallop on this tide in his affairs which, taken at
full flood, must lead to everlasting fame and fortune. Who would now
dare crush him with curt refusal to listen? Who would pooh-pooh his
prophecies, who deny his views, who withhold the homage due him now, as
he strode, agitator, elevator, inspirer, _Anax andron_,--King of
men,--the divinely appointed, heaven-anointed leader of mankind in this
sublime movement for liberty and the Lord only knew what else? It was
late, and the great house was dark, but he let himself in, and, seeking
first the butler's pantry, ransacked the larder for refreshment. He had
eaten and drunk his fill, when the electric bell called his eye to the
indicator. Some one at the street door. Humming softly his blithe tune,
he shuffled over the tiled pavement and unbolted the inner door. A
telegraph-boy handed him two messages, with a receipt-book and pencil.
"John Allison," was all he said.

"I don't think he's home," said Elmendorf. "Did you try the club?"

For answer the boy sleepily pointed with grimy finger to the address