Shelby slid his extended fingers forward haphazard to a learned periodical, which fell open to a discussion of cuneiform inscriptions.
"Are you bound for Tuscarora, too?" he inquired.
"I'm going home."
"Which train?"
Sprague named his train after a leisured moment's study of an illustration.
"That's my own—or will be, rather, till Albany, where our car gets its own engine. I'm in for a day or two's campaigning with his Excellency; rear end speeches, and that sort of thing, you know."
The editor was unimpressed.
"If you care to drop in, I'll introduce you to the governor."
"Thanks, no. We've met."
Shelby's color mounted under repeated rebuff, and his self-respect was nil; but a sincere desire to shield the woman whose folly he had abetted, rose beside the spectre of defeat to drive him on.