Clive picked up the typewritten envelope listlessly and tore it open. It contained a note, also typewritten, and a thicker enclosure. He read:
“Anonymous letters carry a stigma. Perhaps that is why you did not profit by my last one. I have good reasons for not signing my name. And you have good reason to know by now that what I write is the truth. Be wiser this time. I enclose a list of the County Chairmen who have sold out to Conover, the name of the Chairman to be chosen for next week’s State Convention, and a rough draft of the plan to be used for your defeat. Next to each detail you will find my suggestion for blocking it. You owe it to yourself and to the people to take advantage of what I send you.”
“He’s right, whoever he is!” exclaimed Clive, half-aloud. “It’s the only way I can fight Conover on equal terms. There’s no sense in my standing on a foolish scruple when so much hangs on the result of the Convention.”
He snatched up the enclosure which had slipped to the floor. Irresolute he held it for almost a minute, his firm lips twitching, his eyes cloudy with perplexity. Then, with a sigh of self-contempt he slipped note and enclosure in a long envelope, addressed it and rang for his man.
“See that this is delivered to-night,” he ordered.
The valet, as he left the room, glanced surreptitiously at the envelope’s address. To his infinite bewilderment he saw the superscription:
“Caleb Conover, Esq., 167 Pompton Avenue. Personal.”
There was a terrible half hour in the Mausoleum that night.
CHAPTER IX
A CONVENTION AND A REVELATION
The day of the State Convention!