When John Allingham arrived at City Hall Thursday morning he was first of all impressed with the changed interior of the place,—the absence of loafers, the clean corridors, the blossoming plants. Neither could he help seeing that in place of the old spirit of listlessness in the various departments, everyone seemed busy and interested. "If this is what women can do in politics," he began to say to himself,—but the idea of incongruity was so deeply fixed in his mind that he at once supplemented his unfinished sentence,—"but they have no business here, just the same. It is no place for women."

He displayed none of the sense of awkwardness he felt, however, when he entered the Mayor's office and bade her good-morning.

"You wanted to see me?" he asked, taking the seat close to her desk.

"I sent for you," returned Miss Van Deusen, "because I am in special need of good, reliable men. Mr. Armstrong thinks you might be willing to help us in the struggle to get our city government on the right basis."

"I have already told you, I think," answered Allingham, with a slight sense of reserve, "that you can depend upon me."

"Yes, I know," said the Mayor; "I am proving it by now offering you the position of street commissioner. Will you take it?"

Allingham was distinctly taken by surprise. He had not expected—had he deserved?—a prominent place in the city government. He was not sure that he wanted it.

"Perhaps you would like a day to consider the proposition," she went on, divining his hesitation. "And won't you talk with Mr. Armstrong about it? He knows as well as anybody what the work of the street department is going to involve. Can you think this over and let me know tomorrow?"

"I thank you for the honor you do me, anyway," answered he, rising to go, "and I will talk with Mr. Armstrong as you suggest. Of course you know, Miss Van Deusen, we all want to uphold your work, now."

"Yes, yes, I believe so," she returned seriously. "And, Mr. Allingham, it is because I want some thorough work done in the street department—by a fearless, trustworthy official, that I sent for you."

"Thank you," said Allingham—and went down stairs in a tumult. Had he a right to such treatment? Had he not done everything in his power to prevent her election? Had he not used pen and tongue in all bitterness against her? And here she was, offering him one of the "plums" of the municipal pudding, just as if he had been her devoted henchman. But stay,—was she doing this to win him over, to make him come out before the public as her supporter? What would people say?

No. He would go over to his office and write a letter, declining the offer. A very polite letter it should be, acknowledging her distinguished kindness in offering him so responsible a post on her corps of working officials; but his private affairs—his law practice, the work of the Municipal League, his health, all combined to make it impossible for him to accept a position which would entail so great an obligation to the city—and to her. Yes, to her! That was it, he knew.

And yet—to her? Why not? How capable and strong and self-reliant she had looked that morning in the mayor's chair. How different from any other women he had ever seen! What must she have been made of—this woman who had been the social equal of the best people in Washington, that she could lay aside for the moment all social preferences, all refined and educated tastes, to become mayor of such a city as Roma?—to sit there in the temple of the money-changers and try to wrestle with its problems. Bah! he had no taste for such modern women, or for such—

But he had promised to do everything he could to help her,—and to see Armstrong. Pshaw! He would go back and have it out with Bailey.

He turned and climbed the stairs to the city solicitor's office. Armstrong welcomed him with a cordial bluffing way the two always used towards each other.

"About time you came," began Bailey. "Here I am occupying one of the seats of the high and mighty, and you make off as if I were nobody. I've a mind to take it out of you somehow."

"If you dared," returned Allingham. "But you can't. You've a character to maintain and I'm a guest. I say—was it you who put it into Miss Van Deusen's head that I'd take any little plum she chose to offer me? Because I won't, you know."

"O, yes, you will," said Bailey, "when it's pro bono publico. And say, if you've any civic pride whatever—if you want to discover graft in its most rampageous form and help to suppress or expose it—here's your chance. And you a boasted 'Municipal Reformer!'"

"What do you mean?" asked Allingham.

"Well, just this. One of Burke's contractors came into the Mayor's office the other day and complained that I was about to 'rip his contracts up the back,'—at least, that's the classic language in which he chose to present his ideas to a lady. I hadn't begun to look into these matters at all; but what he said led Miss Van Deusen to send for me and we have since been looking him up. I find that he is paving several streets—or will do so—on no end of little contracts of three hundred yards for each. He makes a nice fat sum on each,—an aggregate of several thousand dollars, I won't undertake to say how much. That sets us to thinking and investigating some more. Say, Jack, remember the franchise the Boulevard Railway asked for and almost got last year? It's still pending, you know. Well, I've reason to think the Mayor was in on it—and Burke—for no end of boodle. That's why he wanted to be mayor. So you see, 'there's a reason' why a man like you should be willing to take the job of street commissioner this year. It will be no 'plum' this time, I can assure you. It looks now, as if it would be a fight instead—and perhaps a good hot one."

"That puts a different look to it," said Jack. "You know I'm not afraid of a fight—a good one."

"Don't I know it?" retorted Bailey. "Haven't I gone to bed sore and stiff, too many times, as a boy, to forget it? It's because you are a fair fighter and not a boodler that we want you at the head of the street department now. Come, Jack, will you do it?"

"You can be sure of it, Bailey," returned Allingham. "I'll accept at once. Tell me more of what you are finding out. That is, if you think she won't mind."

"She won't mind your knowing some of it anyhow, because you'll be expected to help us look into certain matters," said Bailey.

They talked together for an hour or so, and when John Allingham finally departed he felt a deeper interest in city reform than ever, and believed the time had come when he could be of real use to his community.

"By the way, Jack," said Armstrong, as he was leaving, "have you found out anything more about the originators of your strange ride the night before election?"

"I have detectives working on it now—or pretending to," replied Jack, "but they don't seem to get anywhere. Whoever was behind the scheme covered his tracks well."

"Yes, we, too, have had a detective working," said Bailey, "though Miss Van Deusen has called him off now. No use, she says, and thinks perhaps any further work in that direction may hinder what she wants to do in another."

"Perhaps she's right," responded Allingham. "All we have been able to discover is that two electric cabs, both provided with outside means of locking the doors and windows, took the opposing candidates and went off twenty miles or so into the country, on the night before election, breaking up an important debate that might have turned the current of affairs in another direction—"

"—Um, perhaps," interrupted Bailey. "Perhaps not. Anyway, all this we knew before midnight, the evening it happened."

"Yes. And while there are no electric cabs in Roma, there are plenty of them within a radius of twenty-five miles of us. And the Burke gang could easily have brought any of them here. I've been having a hunt made for cabs with outside locks; but so far, none have been discovered. Between you and me, I doubt if we can ever find out."

"Between you and me, I shall not be surprised if we run up against further deviltry of that sort," said Bailey, "before we get through with—"

The telephone interrupted him, and after a short one-sided conversation, Bailey arose, too.

"I'll go along with you," he said. "Miss Van Deusen wants to see me."

"Well, I hope I should know enough, Gertrude Van Deusen," retorted the fluffy lady, "to go to the street-cleaning department about that. No, I've something really important to tell you."

"Indeed. You may close the door after you, Minnie," she said to the stenographer. "Now, what is it, Bella?" For the life of her, she could not help using the same tone she would have used to a pretty child who had dropped in to complain of her teacher.

"Well, Mary Flynn,—that's my laundress, you know,—has overworked lately, and to keep up her strength, I'm sorry to say, has indulged in her habit of toning up for her day's work with more of the 'crathur' than is good for—, By the way, when are you going to tackle the saloons, Gertie?" She did not wait for an answer, but rattled on. "And so, you know, she gets rather talkative. Yesterday she was about half-seas over and talked every minute, and when I went down stairs to show her about my new lingerie waists—well, you should have heard her!"

"Entertaining, no doubt," said Gertrude, wondering why she should have come here to take up her time with these purely domestic affairs.

"'Faith, an' a woman for mayor is it, we do be havin'. An' a fine muss she'll be in ef she kapes on, indade and indade! McAlister's foreman was a tellin' av us last night, he was, that they'll soon be losin' their job. He says, says he, she's again' an honest man makin' a livin', she is. Why, there's me own naice's husband, Tim Mathews, ain't he an ahlderman, rayspicted an' looked up to? Ain't he layin' by a tidy little fortin' for Mary, just by aldermannin', when he's dead an' gone?' 'How is that, Mary?' I asked. 'He doesn't get much of a salary as alderman, does he? How can he support his six children and lay up a fortune?' 'Oh, well, ma'am, it ain't the salary as does it,' returned the woman. 'It's the plooms; ef it wasn't for the plooms, he couldn't afford to lave his groceryin' an' his little corner saloon. But it's the plooms as make it worth while, he says.' 'What do you mean by "plums," Mary,' I asked, 'perquisites?' 'Why, ma'am, them that wants railroads an' saloons an' other privileges must pay the aldermin for thim. Why,' says she, 'would you believe it—Tim put a thousan' dollars in the bank in me naice's name the day he voted the franchise for the new street railroad, or that is—well, Mis,' did you say blue thim waists or not?' and not another word could I get out of her, although I quizzed her carefully as long as I dared to. I told Rudolph about it last night and he said, 'Aha!' and whistled; and then he told me to tell nobody else in the world, but you. So I've come. Rudolph will support you. I always said so. He seems to think,—at least he said—'this may open up a pretty deep question for Miss Van Deusen.'"

"As indeed, it does," replied Gertrude, thoughtfully. "Tim Mathews, you said was the man?"

"Yes," said the fluffy lady, "but Rudolph said if that story was so, undoubtedly there are others."

"Undoubtedly," replied Gertrude. "Thank you, Bella, for coming to me. And you'll say nothing of this to anyone else?"

"O, no; and Rudolph thought it better that I should not be known in this. So you must promise, Gertie, not to let it be known that I told you. I might lose a very excellent laundress if you did."

Gertrude laughed. "What a very feminine point of view!" she said. "But you may have rendered the city a very good service, and I heartily thank you."

When her visitor had gone Gertrude Van Deusen sat alone for some time. She had caught only at a straw,—but it might indicate which way a very strong wind had blown or might now be blowing. Was this the reason the board of aldermen were so opposed to her proposed bill? Evidently, there was need of a secret and courageous study of the situation. Corruption was in the very air; she had known it was there for a long time; but this was the first real evidence of it in definite shape. And yet,—the story might have been but the idle boast of a half-drunken washerwoman. What should she do? Send for Judge Bateman?—Bailey?—Allingham? Not yet. She would look into it herself a little more.

She sent for the city treasurer, who came in somewhat uncertain as to what this woman could want with him. But he soon found out, for after perfunctory greetings, the Mayor put the case squarely before him.

"Mr. Hanaford, I would like to look into the matter of our expenses for the last year or two."

"Why, certainly, I will draw up the statement for you," he answered in some surprise.

"No. That is in all the reports, I suppose," she said; "I would prefer to look into the books myself. I can then take the time to study the situation and compare figures."

"But really, Miss Van Deusen,—your Honor—you do not mean to insinuate that you do not trust me?" The man's tone was aggrieved, almost rebellious.

"I insinuate nothing. I distrust nobody," she replied quietly. "But our charter gives the mayor access to all the books and accounts of the city at any time. I wish to familiarize myself with the city records, financial as well as clerical."

"Very well," said Mr. Hanaford. "But this is—may I be excused for saying it?—unexpected." He was saying to himself, "And what we might expect from a woman, with no knowledge of business."

"Will you come to my office?" he added respectfully, reassured by the thought that because she was a woman, she could not grapple with the problems before her, except by special study in each department.

"It will be better for you to bring all the books to my office," she answered. "Please have them here tomorrow morning."

Mr. Hanaford had scarcely gone out of hearing when an unfamiliar name was announced, with the information that the man insisted on seeing the mayor.

"I have tried to make him tell what he wants," said Mary Snow, "but apparently he wants nothing but you. He is a gentleman,—that is, he dresses and speaks like one."

"Send him in and stay near the telephone," said Gertrude. And a moment later a stranger entered,—a well-dressed, heavily mustached man of forty-five.

"Your Honor, the Mayor," he began. "I am proud to meet the first woman who sits in a mayor's chair in America." He waited for her to be seated and then drew up a chair close to her desk.

"Thank you. Let us hope I may not be the last," answered Gertrude.

"There will never be one that will grace the office more completely," returned the stranger gallantly. "Although, you will say that a mayor of either sex should not be chosen for graciousness alone."

"That is what I was about to say," said Gertrude. "But I am glad you recognize that firmer qualities are necessary, Mr.—Pardon me, did you give me your name?"

"Perhaps not," was the suave reply. "I am Orlando Vickery. I represent the Boulevard Railway Co."

Gertrude mastered her astonishment. This elegant person, then, was the man who was accused of trying to push his franchise through City Hall, illegally.

"I called to talk over matters with you," he was saying. "I feel that if you were to understand our position exactly, what we hope to do for the public, what we intend to do for the development of the city, I might persuade you that our cause is a just one—that we are entitled to all we ask and that, really, we are making a most liberal arrangement for the city."

"I do not fully understand just what you want to do," admitted the mayor. "Won't you explain?"

He did so at considerable length, entering into a voluble account of the proposed railroad and its expected earnings, and detailing at some length the advantages to that part of Roma which the proposed line would open up.

"But you know, of course, that the citizens of that section of the city are opposed to having your railway go through it?" asked the Mayor when he finally stopped.

"But they are short-sighted, blind," urged the man. "Now look here," lowering his voice. "We want you with us. I am prepared to offer you a bonus of $10,000 the day you sign our franchise."

"Mr. Vickery!" cried Gertrude.

"Fifteen, then—twenty thousand," he urged, oblivious to the look on her face. "And, yes, I can make you a shareholder in the system,—and our Railway will be a winner, as I have shown you—"

"Mr. Vickery!" the Mayor rose to her full height. "We may as well terminate this interview. I could not think of accepting anything of the sort. Understand, once for all, that I am not to be bought."

"Tut, tut, my dear lady," answered Vickery suavely, "I might have known better than to have presented my proposition to any woman—but you are an advanced woman, one who knows the ways of the world. I had presumed you knew something of the ways of politics."

"Mr. Vickery," said she, softening under a new idea; "tell me, is it customary for officials with whom you have had similar dealings to,—well, to be made shareholders in the concern?—And these little arrangements of which you speak.—should I be doing an unprecedented thing if I were to accede to your proposition?"

"Now you're talking like a sensible woman—a woman who has some idea of running municipal affairs in a business way," the man replied. "While I do not wish to violate any confidences,—I may say you will not find yourself the first, nor the second official who is 'in it,' with the Boulevard Railway scheme."

"Well, Mr. Vickery, I want to think this over a little," said Gertrude. "I cannot decide today."

"Take all the time you want," replied the promoter, cheerfully. "Only, of course, the sooner we get this through, the better it will be for us all."

"I see," answered the Mayor. "And now, good morning, Mr. Vickery."

When she was alone again she sat back in her chair and stared hard at her desk for a good five minutes.

"I am beginning to see light," said she at last.

Meanwhile, Orlando Vickery was getting into his automobile and whirling away down the street, chuckling to himself.

"Reformers are just like other folks," he told himself. "Catch 'em just as easy as a bird—only put a little salt on their tails, in the shape of good paying stocks, or a sufficient number of good hard, gold plunks."

"I am beginning to realize what it means to a business man to have a good home," she said to her cousin as she drew her pet easy chair up to the open fire in her library,—for although it was May the nights were chilly. "I never appreciated fully what it means to have a comfortable house well-kept;—to draw up after a hard day's work before one's own fire—to let the world go by while I 'take mine ease in mine inn.' I tell you, Jessie, if women all realized what this means, there would be more happy homes and fewer divorces."

"I suppose so," replied her cousin. "Yet there is something to be said on the other side. I get so tired of staying in the house all day, struggling with the problems of housekeeping and the vagaries of servants that I rather sympathize with the women who demand the company of their husbands at night, to the theaters and dinners and whatever social functions come handy."

"Wrong," said Gertrude sententiously. "When a man gets home at night, weary in body and mind with the grind of his business, he wants a good dinner, an easy chair, his newspaper or magazine, his pipe. I can understand how like heaven a woman can make his home—a woman with tact;—or how like the other place it might become with her discontented grumbling or her determination to get him into evening clothes and drag him into the outside world again,—to be harried and worried and kept uncomfortable for several hours more."

"But the wives—what are they going to do?" asked Miss Craig. "Are they never to have any outside pleasures?"

"With all the clubs and bridge-parties and afternoon teas, they have going in the day-time," said Gertrude, "let them be content. But at night, if she values domestic happiness, let the wife not dare deprive her husband of the delights of a good well-kept home," and she snuggled closer into her big chair.

"Goodness, Gertie!" laughed her cousin. "One would think you contemplated a husband. Or are you getting up a speech on Public Life for Women as a Training for Matrimony. But here's Bailey. I suppose you want to talk over City Hall matters—the last thing I want to listen to. So you'll excuse me. But, do you think the ideal domestic menage would allow business after hours? O, Bailey, I suspect she'll be taking up cigarettes next;" and with that she went away to make a call at the nearest neighbor's.

"Sit down, Bailey," said Gertrude, reaching up to greet him. "I'm so comfortable—and lazy, here; I'm sure you won't mind if we just sit by this fire and talk things over. Well—do you know that Mr. Henry,—the accountant,—has been going over the books today?"

"Probably a good thing," was Bailey's comment. "Find anything out of the way?"

"He thinks the salary bills, some of them, larger than they should be. O, there is so much to do! So many ways in which things should be improved!—so many ends to be looked after and gathered up," she cried.

"Not getting tired, Gertie—already?" asked Bailey, in a surprised tone.

Gertrude sat up straight in her chair. "There are two sides to me, Bailey," she answered. "I suppose there are two to most people. There is the Gertrude Van Deusen who has been shielded and cared for all her life, who has never known hardship or difficulty—or even work; and sometimes—as tonight here in the shelter of my father's fine library, she comes to the surface with her cry for luxury and the easy sheltered path she has always known. But there is another Gertrude Van Deusen, who having laid her hand to the plough, would deem it a disgrace to turn back before her furrow is ploughed. She is the one who stands ready to face anything, to dare the city rogues, to root out corruption if it exists—and I think it does."

"Not much doubt of that," returned Bailey. "And good for you. You're the same girl I used to drive into a corner of the snow-fort, just to see you fight."

"Not very ladylike, was I?" smiled Gertrude. "But if I had been of the ladylike kind,—well, Roma would have had Burke in as mayor now. And Bailey, I believe Burke is deep in that Boulevard business. How shall we find out?"

They talked for a long time over the glowing coals; then Mary Snow came in and Jessie Craig again, and there was music and a quiet game of whist, after which Bailey escorted Mary away with his most gallantly protective air.

"Gertrude, do you think Bailey is just a trifle interested there,—in Mary Snow, I mean?" asked Miss Craig when they had gone.

"Bailey? O, no," answered Gertrude. He had been devoted to her so many years, she felt an almost proprietary interest in him. She felt that she might have married Armstrong any time within the last ten years. "Bailey is always interested in people I like," she went on. "And I certainly do like Mary. I don't know what I could do without her. The work brings the two in close consultation often, you know." She did not see the lifting of Jessica's dainty eye-brows as she turned to say good-night. And it was well she did not see Bailey when he said good-bye to Mary a little later.

The next morning Vickery came to see her again.

"Weren't expecting to see me so soon, perhaps?" he asked as he drew close to her desk. "But I thought I'd drop in and see what you've decided on,—or if you've decided on anything. How is it? Coming in with us?"

"There are still some points I want to question you about," said the Mayor. "Minnie, will you give us the room, free from interruption a few minutes? Thank you. Now, Mr. Vickery, will you go over your proposition again?"

The man did so, explaining the advantages and necessities of the desired franchise with many words. She asked an occasional question, cautiously and with apparent lack of intelligence, and even at the close of their talk he doubted if she understood half of what he had been saying.

"You want to remember," he concluded, "that we have good men behind the scheme. There is plenty of money, and we are prepared to put some of it where it will do the most good."

He waited significantly, but she did not seem to understand. What could be expected of a woman, in matters of this kind.

"As I said the other day, there will be a nice little slice of stock for you,—and $20,000 besides for you, or for your pet charity," he urged, to put the thing more plainly before her.

"But if we were to get found out?" she asked. "If it were to be known—might we not get into trouble?"

"Huh! no danger of that," laughed Vickery. "The aldermen are all in it—we can manage the common council—that is, if you come with us. And Armstrong will be sure to come in, if you do."

"Hadn't I better talk this over with the chairman of the board of aldermen?" asked Gertrude.

"You might," assented Vickery. "Still,—in matters of this kind, it is better to do as little talking as possible."

"But how am I to be sure they are in it?" The Mayor seemed to hesitate. "I do not want to do any unnecessary talking—but how do I know this is not all a trap, to catch me?"

"More astute than I gave her credit for being," said Vickery to himself. Then aloud:

"My dear lady!—but I realize your position—yes, and I respect it. If I give you proof, actual figures,—will you believe me then?"

"Yes, I'll believe you then," said Gertrude.

"Then suppose I come again this afternoon," urged the man. "I'll have the memoranda of the figures with me."

"Very well. Come at three," answered Gertrude. "I will have the way clear by then."

And Vickery departed, well satisfied with his half-hour's work. But when he had gone, Gertrude sent for Mary Snow, and they had a long talk together.

At three, promptly as the clocks were chiming out the hour, Orlando Vickery presented himself, and was ushered into the Mayor's private office.

"Well, I'm here," he said. "We are alone, of course?" He walked over to a curtained doorway, and drew aside the draperies. The stenographer's office was disclosed—empty. He remembered having seen her in the outer office as he came through.

"Pardon me," he apologized. "I just wanted to make sure—for your own sake, of course. For while these little arrangements are always being made, we prefer to have no witnesses, you know. Again, pardon me, but where does that door lead to?" He pointed towards the corner, just behind the desk.

"Only into a private closet," answered Gertrude. "You can look in if you insist upon it." But she quaked a little inwardly as she said it.

"O, no," answered Vickery. "I thought it might lead into one of the other offices. We don't want to be disturbed. Now, for business. Here's my private memorandum. Look it over. Anything you can't understand, just ask me."

Gertrude took the book—a small leather-covered memorandum—and began turning its leaves. But somehow she seemed dull of comprehension.

"What is this?" she asked. "'Paid in 1907,—Royalties.' What are royalties?"

"Well, I preferred to put them that way. I should put you, when we perfect our little transaction, under that head."

"O, I see," answered Gertrude. "Here is John O'Brien, $12,000; is that a royalty as you call it?—because he is pledged to the franchise?"

"That's what," answered Vickery. "He's already had that much. He was chairman last year, you know."

"And Mr. Mann,—our present chairman," asked Gertrude. "Is he here?"

"Later on you'll find him," was the reply.

Gertrude read on, in a low distinct voice, the various items, showing "royalties" paid various officials, running from $500 up to thousands, finally coming down to Mann's.

"Is this right—Otis R. Mann, $13,500?" she asked.

"That's right."

"And that means that Mr. Mann has already taken $13,500—and pledged himself to get the franchise through?" she asked in her low clear tone.

"That's what. All we need now is your signature and to go through the form of getting it passed through the council again, and we are all done," answered Vickery. "You have a queer charter in this town."

"And if I sign the proposed bill?" she asked.

"You get $20,000 cold cash and a thousand shares of preferred stock," urged Vickery.

"Why not give me a certified check right now?" asked the Mayor.

"Now if that isn't just like a woman!—a charming feminine trait, too," returned Vickery. "No man would think of asking for a check in these little transactions. Good, solid money is all right, isn't it?"

"I suppose so," she returned.

"Well?" he asked, after a slight pause.

"Well?" she returned.

"You're going to sign the bill?" he asked, wondering just what she would do next.

"Mr. Vickery,—it's against all my principles, you know,—taking money or its equivalent for my signature," said the Mayor.

"Oh,—I thought we had gone all over that," he retorted.

"Yes, I know. I haven't said I won't," she went on. "But I want just one day—or rather, one night more to think this over—I wonder what my father would do in my case."

"Your father was a good politician," answered Vickery confidently. "He would have known at once what to do."

"I believe he would," answered Gertrude in her most inscrutable manner. "Well, I'll tell you what I'll do. I'll take tonight—only just tonight, to settle this with my conscience—and I will see you in the morning—early, if you say so."

"I suppose I shall have to be satisfied with that," answered Vickery, tucking the little memorandum book safely away in an inner pocket. "But I would like your promise now."

"Oh,—Mr. Vickery, tomorrow morning, please." She smiled and held out her hand. He took it and bade her good afternoon. He was not quite sure, when he went down stairs this time whether he ought to congratulate himself or not.

"These women," he said to himself, as he sought the aldermen's room, "are not to be depended on. You think you have 'em one minute, but when you go to put your finger on 'em, they are not there."

But upstairs, Gertrude was telephoning for the district attorney.

Instead of calling on the Mayor the next morning as he had planned to do, Orlando Vickery found himself hailed before the Special Commissioner and put on the grill. But he took refuge behind the corporation for which he claimed to be acting as attorney and refused to admit or confess to any transactions of a financial nature, or incriminate in any way the officials whom he had approached. He was arrested on the charge of extortion, however, and that gave the prosecution a chance to shut him up, while they arranged for an investigation before the grand jury (which was already being impaneled) into the schemes of the Boulevard Railway Company with the city councilmen. These proceedings were conducted as quietly as possible, but in spite of all precautions, the newspapers that evening flamed with head-lines, which varied as usual in size and sensationalism with the character of the sheet which used them; and before Roma retired for the night, the whole city was stirred by the prospect of a most spectacular fight. One half the citizens were congratulating themselves that at last, corruption and the spoilsmen were to be uprooted, while the other half revelled in the excitement and turmoil which always attends the witnessing of a deadly combat.

And meanwhile, the few,—the "ring,"—were in anxious consultation. "How much do you know?" was the question that stirred them. Under an assumed coolness and indifference, and acting in secret, there were those who saw to it that a high and mighty representative of the Boulevard Railway Company came on to arrange bail for Vickery. The board of aldermen was, apparently, most indifferent of all, and refused to talk of the new sensation either to reporters or to any one else,—except among themselves when no outsiders were near. For as yet, none of them could determine how any information had leaked out or just who had been implicated.

While events had been leading up to this point, the women of Roma had not been idle. Even before the "Progressive Workers" had thought of putting up their candidate for the mayoralty, they had been interested in the subject of pure food—and this, too, was before Senator Heyburn had introduced his famous bill to the United States Congress. One of the liberal churches in the city had called a woman to its pulpit some years ago; and the story of what she accomplished among the young people of her parish is too long and too complicated to be incorporated here. Suffice it to say that one day she was "discovered" by a "P. W." and invited to join the club. Too earnest and active a worker to sit by and listen to literary exercises and discussions that did not get anywhere, she had almost at the beginning of her membership cast about for some definite work which she—and the rest—might do.

Now, she was a housekeeper on her small salary, and therefore must go to market for herself. Like thousands of other club women, she had come away from her provision store or grocery, half nauseated by what she had seen, or experienced through her olfactory sense. But unlike the average woman, she refused to endure these things patiently. She began, quietly, to investigate. She visited the city abattoir, the wholesale markets, the cattle-pens. Even before the municipal election, she had laid out a thorough campaign in the interests of pure food, which she presented to the "Progressive Workers." The previous spring there had been an exhibition prepared by the club of foods and food-products, pure and adulterated. This exhibition had been attended by thousands of housekeepers and by a few men, and had served to awaken a semblance of interest in the question of pure food.

When Gertrude was fairly installed in office, the Reverend Martha Kendall had called at City Hall and laid before the Mayor a definite plan, the result of which was that the woman minister was made Inspector of Markets, there being such an office provided for in the old City Charter, although it had remained a dead letter on the books. And no sooner did the Reverend Martha Kendall receive her appointment than she went to the club and asked to have a special committee appointed from that organization to work with her for clean markets and pure food.

When the women of any city show beyond question that they want pure food—or any other definite thing—they are going to get it, and without delay. Although there was some grumbling among the marketmen, the provision stores were soon put through such a course of scrubbing and whitening as to make the old-fashioned "spring house-cleaning," which has been the bugbear of pater familias and one of the chief assets of the paragrapher for so many years, a process of incomparably mild flavor. At the abattoir it had not been so easy to effect a reform, but with such women as Mrs. Bateman, Mrs. Albert Turner and the Reverend Martha Kendall coming down there to inspect and to demand cleanliness and wholesome conditions, the butchers who shone before the public as "wholesale meat producers" did not dare to refuse the improvements asked for; so that by the time the grand jury began to look into the methods of the aldermen with the street railway system, there were both friends and enemies of the new administration ready to take a hand, if necessary.

Then, too, there were the men who owned, and the men who ran, the questionable resorts; the gambling dens; the saloons; the houses of which good women are popularly supposed to know nothing. All of these had been problems which Gertrude had been thinking about and planning for, before her election was settled. These matters she had talked over with few, if any, of her advisers; for she had her own ideas—or perhaps her father's. When she was fairly established in the Mayor's chair she had appointed a reliable man as police commissioner—one who would carry out her plans. There were no spectacular raids, with their round-ups and the subsequent laxity which allows such places to flourish in the same spots and with no lapse of time (and profits). She abolished the "drag-net system" by ignoring it; but she broke up gambling, closed the wine-rooms, and the other questionable resorts, simply by stationing a trusty policeman in uniform on the steps of every one of these places, whose duty it was to take the name and address of every person who entered them; and to turn this list into the City Hall every morning and every night. As a consequence, some of these property owners and "managers" had found their income vanishing. The latter were leaving town in bevies; but the former were nursing their grievances and were fast getting into line as open or secret enemies of the reform administration which the "woman's movement" had now fairly inaugurated.

It must not be thought, either, that the women of Roma stood solid for the woman-mayor. As long as there are husbands and wives, the latter will be guided, in greater or less degree, by the opinions of the former. The women who do not read, the women who do not care, the women who do not think, invariably take the opinions of the men nearest them, no matter how ignorant and unintelligent these men may be; and the women who do read and care and think,—but it may be as well to carry the argument no farther.

So it happened that the women of Roma were as divided as the men on the subject of city reform; although, as Gertrude noted with pride, most of the educated, thinking women could be counted on to support her in every effort she was making for the betterment of their civic conditions. It was the women like Mrs. Bella's "wash-lady" who were most opposed to her; and those other women of the underworld who do not recognize the friend of her own sex when she appears clothed in the garb of a reformer.

Thus it came about when the investigation was actually begun and occupied the most prominent place in the public interest at Roma, there were almost as many against the new mayor as there were actively or passively for her. Because, too, there was the large contingent of citizens who cannot make up their minds in a hurry, but must wait for popular opinion to crystallize before they can adopt it.

As always, the Atlas came out strongly for the administration of justice:

"At last" it proclaimed editorially, "Roma has a Mayor with the courage of conviction. At last, corruption is not only detected, but it is to be dragged forth to meet its judge; at last, it is not going to be shared by our public officials. It behooves every man and every woman in Roma to uphold the present investigation and the new mayor."

But the "ring sheet" spoke otherwise:

"After months of promising to 'reform' something, the woman-mayor and the lady-like gentlemen who are supporting her, are going to do something great. They have—by crooked and devious ways—discovered (so they affirm) Graft, with a big, big G. It is hinted that the Mayor herself is to go on the witness stand to prove that men who know a hundred-fold more about running a municipality are dishonest boodlers. Just like a woman! She has got beyond the rudiments of municipal financiering and into the sub-divisions which she cannot understand and there she cries 'Graft.' She is beyond her depth and so she imagines there is fraud. Well, let her prove it; in the meantime, while she is trying to do so, she will demonstrate—exactly as we predicted last fall—what a dangerous thing it may be to a city to let a woman loose upon its administrative functions. Women were never intended for public officials. Perhaps—as the opposite party piously claim—the hand of Providence put her there; just to prove to Roma and her voters what a dangerous thing a little power may be in the hands of the incompetent and inexperienced public servant."

Gertrude read all these editorial sayings and smiled or sighed according to her mood. Sometimes they helped her gird on her armor all the more bravely, ready to do battle for her principles to the last breath. Again, "that other Gertrude Van Deusen" came to the front and she wished in secret that she were a quiet, protected home woman, with a husband who loved her and little children to lead along the right paths. But why should John Allingham always come into her mind just there?