“Why do you want to see Mr. Conover?” asked Anice, “or is that an impertinent——?”
“Not in the least. I want to come to an understanding with him. Affairs have reached a point where that is necessary.”
“An understanding?”
“Yes. As long as he contented himself with ordering his followers to lampoon and vilify myself and the League I made no complaint. It was dirty, but I suppose it was politics. But when he muzzles the press, orders the police and the mayor of the cities to refuse me fair play, and sets thugs to attack me and illegally steals the State conventions, it’s time to have it out with him face to face. That is why I am here, and why I shan’t leave until I have seen him. I hadn’t meant to say all this to you,” he added, ashamed of his own heat, “but——”
“Oh, I’m certain Mr. Conover won’t like it!” moaned his aunt. “I’m quite certain he won’t. Now, if you’d only speak tactfully and pleasantly to him——”
“Well,” came the Railroader’s strident tones from the hall outside, “where is he, then?”
The portières were swished aside with a jerk that set the curtain rings to jingling, and Caleb Conover, in riding dress, hatted, spurred and slashing his crop against one booted leg, filled the narrow doorway.
Mrs. Conover gave a little gasp of fear. Anice Lanier let fall over her bright face the mask of quiet reserve it always wore in her employer’s presence.
Clive rose and took a step toward his unwelcoming host.
And so, for ten seconds, the rival candidates faced each other in silence—a silence heavy with promise of storm.