The Governor stood silent, immovable, while the blood crept slowly from his strong neck to his lowering brows.  Once he laughed, then he set his lips and continued to gaze into the fire.  After a while he looked at his cigar and shook the freshly formed cone of ashes carefully upon the hearth.  He had just turned again to Shackwell when the door opened and the butler announced:  “Mr. Fleetwood.”

The room swam about Shackwell, and when he recovered himself, Mornway, with outstretched hand, was advancing quietly to meet his guest.

Fleetwood was a smaller man than the Governor.  He was erect and compact, with a face full of dry energy, which seemed to press forward with the spring of his prominent features, as though it were the weapon with which he cleared his way through the world.  He was in evening dress, scrupulously appointed, but pale and nervous.  Of the two men, it was Mornway who was the more composed.

“I thought I should have seen you before this,” he said.

Fleetwood returned his grasp and shook hands with Shackwell.

“I knew you needed to be let alone.  I didn’t mean to come to-night, but I wanted to say a word to you.”

At this, Shackwell, who had fallen into the background, made a motion of leave-taking, but the Governor arrested it.

“We haven’t any secrets from Hadley, have we, Fleetwood?”

“Certainly not.  I am glad to have him stay.  I have simply come to say that I have been thinking over my future arrangements, and that I find it will not be possible for me to continue in office.”

There was a long pause, during which Shackwell kept his eyes on Mornway.  The Governor had turned pale, but when he spoke his voice was full and firm.

“This is sudden,” he said.

Fleetwood stood leaning against a high chair-back, fretting its carved ornaments with restless fingers.  “It is sudden—­yes.  I—­there are a variety of reasons.”

“Is one of them the fact that you are afraid of what the ‘Spy’ is going to say?”

The Attorney-General flushed deeply and moved away a few steps.  “I’m sick of mud-throwing,” he muttered.

“George Fleetwood!” Mornway exclaimed.  He had advanced toward his friend, and the two stood confronting each other, already oblivious of Shackwell’s presence.

“It’s not only that, of course.  I’ve been frightfully hard-worked.  My health has given way—­”

“Since yesterday?”

Fleetwood forced a smile.  “My dear fellow, what a slave-driver you are!  Hasn’t a man the right to take a rest?”

“Not a soldier on the eve of battle.  You have never failed me before.”

“I don’t want to fail you now.  But it isn’t the eve of battle—­you’re in, and that’s the main thing.”

“The main thing at present is that you promised to stay in with me, and that I must have your real reason for breaking your word.”

Fleetwood made a deprecatory movement.  “My dear Governor, if you only knew it, I’m doing you a service in backing out.”