The Duke of Fort Canibas stared a moment at the herald. Aunt Charette raised her eyes to her protector with the air of one secure under the wings of a patron saint, and went on knitting.
"Gad!" hissed the State chairman. "They certainly do mean you this time, Thelismer! Discrediting your pull in county politics an hour before your caucus! Some one is showing brains!"
Thornton did not answer.
"How in blazes have they pulled over the sheriff?" demanded Presson. But the old man merely stared at the door.
High Sheriff Niles entered at that moment. He stood on the threshold and scowled. He was a stocky man, who had been a butcher. His face was blotched by ruddiness resembling that of raw meat. Behind his cockaded silk hat pressed the faces of his aids. The little yard was filled with men who peered in at the windows. A big truck wagon was creaking as its horses backed it to the door.
"What are you after here, Niles?" demanded Thornton. "After this stock of rum."
The Duke took another swing across the room, licked his lips, and set his extinguished cigar hard between his teeth. He was striving to control the wrath that came boiling up into his purple face and blazing eyes.
"There's the warrant!" The sheriff clapped the paper across his palm.
"Take the stuff, boys!" He waved his hand at the cupboard.
"But the most of it's in the cellar," shrilled the voice of a tattler in the hallway. "There's where she keeps it!"
"I don't need any advice," growled the sheriff. His men trudged into the room and made for the cupboard.