Mr. Ridout and Mr. Manning were talking together in low tones at the head of the stairs. It was the lawyer who accosted Austen.
“The old gentleman don't seem to be quite himself, Austen. Don't seem well. You ought to hold him in he can't work as hard as he used to.”
“I think you'll find, Mr. Ridout,” answered Austen, deliberately, “that he'll perform what's required of him with his usual efficiency.”
Mr. Ridout followed Austen's figure with his eyes until he was hidden by a turn of the stairs. Then he whistled.
“I can't make that fellow out,” he exclaimed. “Never could. All I know is that if Hilary Vane pulls us through this mess, in the shape he's in, it'll be a miracle.
“His mind seems sound enough to-day—but he's lost his grip, I tell you. I don't wonder Flint's beside himself. Here's Adam Hunt with both feet in the trough, and no more chance of the nomination than I have, and Bascom and Botcher teasing him on, and he's got enough votes with Crewe to lock up that convention for a dark horse. And who's the dark horse?”
Mr. Manning, who was a silent man, pointed with his thumb in the direction Austen had taken.
“Hilary Vane's own son,” said Mr. Ridout, voicing the gesture; “they tell me that Tom Gaylord's done some pretty slick work. Now I leave it to you, Manning, if that isn't a mess!”
At this moment the conversation was interrupted by the appearance on the stairway of the impressive form of United States Senator Whitredge, followed by a hall boy carrying the senatorial gripsack. The senator's face wore a look of concern which could not possibly be misinterpreted.
“How's Hilary?” were his first words.