Some clearing of throats followed this ominous declaration,—and a painful silence. The thing must be said and who would say it? Senator Whitredge was the hero.
Mr. Thomas Gaylord has just entered the convention hall, and is said to be about to nominate—a dark horse. The moment was favourable, the convention demoralized, and at least one hundred delegates had left the hall. (How about the last ballot, Senator, which showed 1011?)
The Honourable Hilary rose abruptly, closed the door to shut out the noise, and turned and looked Mr. Whitredge in the eye.
“Who is the dark horse?” he demanded.
The members of the conference coughed again, looked at each other, and there was a silence. For some inexplicable reason, nobody cared to mention the name of Austen Vane.
The Honourable Hilary pointed at the basswood table.
“Senator,” he said, “I understand you have been telephoning Mr. Flint. Have you got orders to sit down there?”
“My dear sir,” said the Senator, “you misunderstand me.”
“Have you got orders to sit down there?” Mr. Vane repeated.
“No,” answered the Senator, “Mr. Flint's confidence in you—”