For a few years Sayler had drawn about himself, had drawn to the support of his policy of the earth for the strong and the sly, scores of the brightest young men of the Middle West. They served him well. They imbibed his genial philosophy of mingled generosity and cynicism. And in exchange for the support and the power they gave him, he gave them office and money and fame. He regarded himself as a benefactor. His young men regarded him as a benefactor. Only cranks denounced him as a procurer and a rake of the vilest description.
He had seen great possibilities in this big, unformed, young state senator, with the gift for eloquent clear statement and with the voice and the eyes that captivated. He purposed to be his benefactor.
Helm was alone in one of the committee rooms, absorbed in the agitated composition of a letter. There were all the obvious signs that much time and paper were being consumed in vain. Sayler paused a moment to look well at his proposed next “victim,” as the cranks would have put it. That long, lean, powerful form, uncouth yet curiously graceful—and somehow so intensely magnetic! That huge, rough-looking head, the strong features, the out-door skin. But Sayler saw only the superb line of the head, the long reach of the jaw. Said he to himself: “This fellow looks more worth getting than any I’ve ever tried for.”
He advanced and laid his hand on Helm’s shoulder. Said he, as Helm looked up, startled:
“I’m going to take a great liberty with you, Helm. I’m somewhat older—but not old enough to be out of your class. And I’m a friend of—of hers—and I want to be a friend of yours.”
The color flooded poor George’s face. He did not know what to do. The man-and-woman game was as strange to him as sailor life to the plainsman. And Sayler had adroitly leaped over the barrier of sensitiveness which Helm had begun to build about his inmost self as soon as he had begun to talk.
“I know you’re writing to her,” proceeded the frank and simple Sayler, “and I’m sure it’s something foolish. The thing to do is to go and face her. She’s leaving this afternoon.”
“To-day!” exclaimed Helm, puzzled. “She said last night she was staying a week.”
“She’s leaving—because of you. When a woman thinks highly enough of a man to fly from him, all he needs do to get her is run her down.”
“She’s leaving?” said Helm. He began to tear up the paper. “Leaving on my account.” He gave a laugh of relief. “Then it’s all settled, and I don’t need to write.” He tore the paper into little bits and sent them to join the mass of similar little bits in the basket. “Evidently she got her head back this morning—just as I did. I wonder what there is about night time that makes people so excited and——”