"You ask Dr. Giles." He went on with elaborate suggestions about the dinner; Mary Judson laid down the blackened, fused handle of glass; then held it again against the darkened light without. Hardly a glint of color remained.... That night she laid it away upon a closet shelf in one of the unused rooms of the great house.
By Friday, after a long talk with Judge Florence, Paul had made up his mind. He had his secretary wire the governor to run back to Adamsville for a consultation; he sent word to Robert Kane, who had left the directorate to succeed Pelham as state mining inspector, to meet him half an hour before the governor was due. No chance that either would fail the engagement; one crook of his little finger, and the state came at his bidding. The iron mountain had given that power to its iron master—a magnetism repellent but irresistible.
When the two builders of the mining strength rose to meet the governor, there was a subdued glitter of expectation in the eye of the younger man. He took the governor's hand with a new assurance.
Bob Tennant—"Whiskey-barrel Tennant"—had sought his accustomed solace on the ride up from Jackson; his face was flushed brick-red, although his tones were still straight.
"Well, Paul—am I in the presence of the next governor?" He essayed a satisfactory bow with oldtime courtliness.
"... Yes," Paul answered slowly.
"That's great, old man!"
"Shake hands with him, Bob—Mr. Robert Kane, your mining inspector."
Tennant's self-possession bridged the surprise. "So he's your trump-card!"
"Can you put it over?"