"Hurrah for Roma's Woman Mayor!" cried the first one to enter. "Here's to Her Honor the Mayor."

At the same moment John Allingham and Barnaby Burke were saying to themselves with a choice of words befitting their habitual language:

"Defeated! and by a Woman!"

And Burke added:

"I wonder now, just what happened in that cab last night. That was a mistake."



CHAPTER X

The New Mayor's Policy

The story of the kidnaping spread through the city like wildfire, and surmounted in interest even the result of the election. As usual in such cases, the facts were exaggerated and speculation ran rife as to the principals in the plot. Some people (the more sensible) thought the Burke forces had planned and executed the whole coup, but others believed that it originated with Sam Watt's party and that Armstrong, getting wind of the carrying away of Gertrude Van Deusen, speedily turned the tables on Allingham by hiring another cab and seizing upon him as he was leaving his house alone, to walk down town to the public debate. It leaked out, too, that there were two men with the cab which carried John Allingham, lest,—the people said,—he should try to break the plate glass front and jump from his moving prison. But that the plot was a well-matured one was proven by the fact that outside locks had been placed on the doors to both cabs, so that they could not be forced open from the inside.

No definite clue, however, could be obtained to the perpetrators of the kidnaping scheme, although both sufferers from it had put private detectives at work upon the affair. But, like many startling public events, the midnight ride of the two candidates was a "nine days' wonder" and then the public interest centered around the newly elected mayor.

Gertrude had need not only of public sympathy, but of all the courage and clear-sightedness which she had inherited. This she realized more fully than ever, when the excitement of campaigning was over. If she had chosen to spend her time and strength and money on automobiles or fine clothes, people would have passed upon her choice as the natural thing, and envied her way of living; but now that she had elected to work hard and to give herself freely to fighting for principle and establishing good government in her city, her friends of different tastes whispered among themselves, "How strange!" "How unwomanly!" "How unnatural for a woman!"

"The only motives many people can understand," said Gertrude one day to her cousin, "are the ones by which they themselves are actuated. And not always then. My rich friends may not be able to understand, but the plain people will; the ones who are capable of conviction and of sacrifices for conviction will."

"All the same, Gertie," retorted her cousin, "this world is not made up of Savonarolas nor other burn-at-the-stake folks. You are in a bad scrape and I wish you had had sense enough to say no when those women dragged you forth," which only went to prove the axiom that one's relatives are privileged of speech.

But the new mayor paid no attention to her cousin and went on calmly planning for the future of Roma, visiting its various institutions and getting as thorough an insight into its public administration as possible before taking her place in the mayor's chair. She visited the schools, the hospitals, the police stations, the jail. She was overwhelmed with the magnitude of what she had undertaken, but already dreamed of a new and beautiful development of the city. She consulted with the leading business men,—judges, lawyers, and the clergy. She began to evolve ideas of her own and thanked Heaven every night that she had been endowed with courage and will-power sufficient to keep her from turning back from her municipal plough in a panic,—courage enough to keep her head high and her aim straight in the path that lay in front of her. She began to draw near the people, to feel a personal interest in them, to realize the great brotherhood of humanity, and to wonder how best she might hope to apply the highest social ideals to the everyday life of her city. Did any man ever take possession of the mayoral chair with purer hopes or more worthy ambitions?

In the meantime every mail brought her letters more or less congratulatory in tone. Some predicted a glorious career ahead for her; some half concealed their disbelief in her ability to fulfill the duties she was to assume; some openly warned her of the perils of weakness and demagogue government, or advised her against the institution of radical reforms.

Socially, she was more in demand than before. Dinners and receptions demanded her presence as chief guest, while her newly acquired gift of speech-making was called into requisition on all sorts of occasions. But the finest social affair of all was the dinner given in her honor by the "Progressive Workers," on the night before her inauguration. To this were invited all the notable men and women of Roma, the mayors of the neighboring cities and the governor of the State, who really attended, supported by a galaxy of uniformed officers which lent brilliancy by their glittering stars and bars, if not by their wit and intellect.

Gertrude, arrayed in her finest Paris gown,—a white embroidered crepon with garniture of exquisite lace,—received the guests at six o'clock, in line with the governor and the mayors of six other cities, together with Mrs. Bateman as president of the "P. W.'s", and Judge Bateman of the City Reform Club. John Allingham had been invited, too, to stand in line, as the head of the Municipal League, but until the last moment no answer was received from him.

Gertrude had not seen him since election day. He had been ill after the election was all over, and unable to go out for a fortnight; and although he had been strongly tempted to write a note of congratulation to the new mayor, he was kept back by pride—which in this case, it must be admitted, was another name for obstinacy. For this reason, he did not decide whether or no to attend the new mayor's reception until Bailey Armstrong descended upon him in the League rooms, two days before the date.

"Why don't you answer your bid for the reception to Miss Van Deusen, Jack?" he asked bluntly, as he seated himself in the chair nearest the chairman's private desk. "Can't you lay aside your prejudice long enough for that?"

"Well, what do you think?" replied Jack. "The League refused to endorse her, you know."

"Under you, yes," retorted Bailey with the frankness of an old friend. "But isn't it about time the League came around and did the square thing? You're putting the League in a bad light, Jack; really you are. I thought you had more sense. And, I tell you, Miss Van Deusen is going to give this town a waking up, such as will make you want to enlist under her banner—quick. Come, be decent, now."

"If you think it will be best for the League," began Allingham.

"Yes. It'll be better for the League—and best for you," said Bailey. "Hurry up now and write your acceptance, and then come."

It was late when he arrived, and the rooms were closely crowded with guests, so that he was hurried past the receiving party and left in his place in the line. He had just a formal greeting for Gertrude and at the dinner was seated where he could only note her beauty and brilliancy from afar. But the effect was John Allingham's first eye-opener in the development of the modern woman. Brought up as he had been, by a narrow jealous mother, kept close at his books, living at home, even during his college days, he had never before come under the direct influence of the women who are becoming an educative, progressive power in the world of today; and he began to wonder for the first time in his life, if a woman might not be a strong force in public reforms and still retain her refinement of spirit and her home-loving, home-keeping qualities.

He recalled how lovely Gertrude Van Deusen used to look as a girl of eighteen, when he had seen her at public gatherings with her distinguished father. But here tonight, she was even more beautiful; her expression was sweeter and more confident; the fine lines of her figure suggested power, and also repose. She had the same rich color, the same lovely curves, the same joyous health; but she had, too, a wiser and a far finer face.

"And yet," he told himself, "all my study and travel and observation tells me a woman's natural position in society is in a safely guarded home; and the evil consequences of meddling with this position must show themselves, sooner or later. Humanity is of one general quality everywhere,—and that not so high as she apparently believes. Changes in social ideals are more or less dangerous and indicate decadence, often, rather than advance. Yet the atmosphere tonight is charged with joyous triumph. Let us see what she is going to say."

For amidst deafening applause, the new mayor had begun to speak to the assemblage around her.

"I am not going to announce any definite line of policy," she was saying, "because, as yet, I have none. I shall take up the work as it comes to me and shall not forget that I am after all only the city's chiefest servant. But, there are many thoughts which I would share with you. There are many things I would have you be thinking over, that we may see alike, perhaps, in the future when our work develops,—for it is yours as much as mine, this work of making a better city. Instead of accepting a written code of first principles in municipal ethics (and why not municipal ethics as well as moral and medical ethics?) let us learn to trace and connect, explain and apply, so as to make our accepted truths into a working principle. Every trade, every profession, has a basis of ethical knowledge; all conduct, public or private, has its ethics. Get the people to study the science of conduct, the development of the ideal into everyday life, and our public morality will rise and spread every year. We have separated too much those two closely allied things, religion and ethics. Let's try to bring them together right here in Roma. We can't reform the city in a year,—but we can begin. No religion is alive until—unless it works. We want no varnish religion,' as somebody called it; we want no ethics that won't strike in and uplift humanity as high as is humanly possible. God is still busy in Roma. It is our business, as private citizens, as well as public officials, to take right hold and help. Let us all set ourselves to studying the ethics of city government. What have been our especial hindrances, and why? What can be done to improve matters, and how? What are our first and most crying needs, and who are our best men and women to help them? We are set here together to help on the good work. I'd rather see the people of Roma loving each other in dollars and cents' and reaching out to help, realizing the immeasurable happiness of living by giving themselves in service, than anything else in the world. We can all demonstrate the highest social relation, our highest duty to God, by doing things. Will you help?"

There were tears in the eyes of the other women present when she sat down,—and a corresponding feeling in the hearts of many men, for she had stirred to the depths many a heart that only needed the path of duty pointed out, to desire to walk therein.

As for John Allingham, he sat spellbound. A woman,—a young woman to talk like this? to dream of applying the doctrines of ethics to city politics? And in the City Hall of Roma? And yet,—why not?

When the exercises were over and the goodnights were being said, he went over to where she stood, shaking hands again with the departing guests and joyously receiving pledge after pledge of help from those whose assistance she most eagerly desired. He had to wait for some moments before his chance came. But finally he held out his hand and said with more cordiality than he had thought possible:

"I want to congratulate Roma upon its woman-mayor. I want to thank you for what you said tonight; and please count on me, from now on, to help in every possible way."

He was still young enough to thrill at the tone of her voice and the light in her eyes as she thanked him, and said, "I shall remember."



CHAPTER XI

At Work

The new mayor's inauguration into office was an event which will go down in the history of Roma as witnessing the greatest crowd of citizens of both sexes in City Hall which that temple of the money-changers ever saw. Both the friends and the enemies of the new administration were out in full force, and Gertrude Van Deusen's speech, accepting her new responsibilities, found ready response in many a heart which was thrilled by her words for the first time that day. The women of Roma turned out en masse and the old City Hall was not spacious enough to shelter all that came.

But it was when she took actual possession of the handsomely appointed office of the mayor, that she realized fully she was face to face with the greatest problem of her life. For now she had access to the inner temple of the mysteries of city government. She had already provided against the sex-awkwardness of her situation by installing as private secretary, Mary Snow, of the Atlas.

"Don't tell me no," she had urged when she offered Mary the position. "I must have a broad-minded, capable woman there who has had experience and knowledge of affairs. I know of nothing that could give a woman this kind of insight into public matters, like newspaper work of the kind you have done."

"But there are other newspaper women," began Mary—

"Yes, I know there are," replied Gertrude Van Deusen. "But a woman must have personal character and dignity and personal honor to fill this position, as well as the aforesaid experience."

And Mary Snow had accepted the place, to the joy of all other newspaper workers; for the gatherer of news is always rejoiced to find a newspaper man or woman ready to serve them when they are sent out for information by their chiefs. As the new mayor believed in publicity she soon had the sworn support of most of the newspaper men who came near City Hall. Her stenographer, too, was an attractive young woman and the feminine element soon became evident in all that part of the building devoted to the mayor's use. Flowers bloomed in the windows, an early and thorough house cleaning took place, and the cuspidors which had been conspicuous at every turn were banished,—all but the occasional one which must be left for the stranded politician who could not wait until he got out of doors. Signs were placed in various parts of the building, calling attention to the new waste-baskets, and prohibiting smoking and expectoration.

From time immemorial, City Hall had been a loafing place for seedy politicians, active and retired, who passed their time plotting for the next campaign in the free seats provided by the City Fathers. One morning these individuals found no chairs,—absolutely none except those used by the officials and clerical force. They called the janitor and expostulated volubly, but all to no effect.

"She's banished 'em, boys," he said. "It would be as much as my place is worth to bring 'em back. The boys say she ain't agoin' to have no heelers 'round here, nohow."

With this they had to be content—after they had grumbled long enough—to go away and hunt up new quarters. For once, there was a City Hall with clean corridors, no tobacco smoke, and no loafers.

From the moment of her entrance into office, office-seekers and office-holders beset Gertrude Van Deusen until she began to doubt if there would be time left for the pursuance of any other duty in life than to appease them. She learned, quickly enough, to shunt these off on her private secretary; but while she did not propose to discharge good men, she found that there must be good counsellors at hand for her own safety. At the end of her first week she called for the resignation of the city solicitor, McAdoo, who was rather glad than otherwise to "cut loose from petticoat government," as he expressed it. His place she filled at once by giving Bailey Armstrong the position.

The Common Council was made up of eighteen men, about half of whom were new to the position, so that it remained to be seen how far they could be depended upon to support any radical reform instituted by the new mayor; but as Geoffrey Mason and Albert Turner had finally consented to run on "the woman ticket" and had been elected, she felt that she might count on their influence, at least, and hoped to win over others. There were perhaps half a dozen, besides, on the "woman ticket"—every one of whom were men who would have declined to serve with any other mayor; but having pledged their word to "see her through" and been elected, they fulfilled their pledge now, like the staunch, good citizens they were. With this backing she felt that she might hope to carry out the work she had undertaken.

There were many things to harass her, however, chief among them being that the board of aldermen were strongly against her, men of the old regime mostly, ready to fight against any radical reforms and to begin work already to defeat her most cherished plans.

"She's in for two years, worse luck," said one of them. "But we'll tie her hands so she can't do too much mischief. A mayor's only a mayor, after all," with which significant utterance he winked solemnly to the reporter who was interviewing him for the Screamer.

But the new mayor went serenely on with her new duties, and if she knew all these things, gave no sign; apparently, the machinery of municipal government was running on well-oiled wheels until even the most ardent of her supporters began to wonder when she was "going to get busy."

But she was busy. The new mayor had a constructive imagination and did not fear big ideas. She dreamed already of a warfare against privilege—the privileges of the franchise corporations, the privileges of unjust taxation, and ultimately the privilege of private monopoly. Graft must be stamped out of the city administration, and a high order of men elected to the bench. Some big things must be accomplished in the city.

She had arrived at the conclusion that to most people the municipality is an industrial accident, its government rather a matter of police, fire and health administration, some public schools and a police court, a street and water department; that they wanted just enough of these things, and at the lowest possible cost, to enable men to go about their daily business.

"That," she said to herself, "is the average man's conception of the uses of a municipality. Some day we shall look back upon such an idea of a city as we now look back upon the straggling tepees of an Indian village. The city of tomorrow will be a people's city, doing countless things, all for the welfare of the people."

"And you expect to put that idea into practice here?" asked Mary Snow somewhat incredulously, as they sat at lunch together after a morning of hard work. "You expect Roma to stand for all that!"

"Her Honor" smiled back across the table. "Yes," she said, "I expect to start things in that direction, and to create such a public interest that my successor will be chosen especially to carry on the work that I mean to begin. I know of one city which already views these things as a necessary part of a good city's administration. It is not content with doing as few things as possible; it does as many things as possible for its people. Its public bath-houses give hundreds of thousands of baths every year. They are equipped with gymnasiums, where public instructors teach the children. Thousands of families are entertained free of cost by the baseball games played upon the public diamonds scattered all over the city. A number of city leagues have been organized, composed of clerks and workingmen. In the winter, skating carnivals are held and two score artificial skating ponds are maintained. The children are invited to the parks for May-day and romping-day festivals. All of these things not only enlarge the life of the people, but also identify them with the city in a way that was not dreamed of a few years ago. By following these lines, Roma may be a people's city, a city that serves, that brings happiness to thousands whose life is otherwise encompassed with the dreary drudgery of toil."

"If you could bring such an ideal state of things to pass," said Mary Snow, "Roma would call you blessed among women. And you would never be allowed to stop being mayor."

"Well," returned Gertrude, "the best way to fight the saloon is to offer a substitute greater in interest. In my ideal city not only will there be plenty of free baseball diamonds, but also golf links and tennis courts, to invite thousands of people into the city's pleasure resorts. A dozen playgrounds will be laid out in the congested districts. Here trained men will teach the children of the poor how to play. These children will be taken from the street. They will be saved from the reformatory. They will be given good bodies to live in. In this way the work of the police department will be diminished, for one playground is the equivalent of several patrolmen. And it does not cost one-quarter as much. Who knows but our Roma of tomorrow will do these things on a grander scale than any of our cities have yet attempted? It will rival the saloon and bring opportunities for recreation and happiness within easy access of the poorest man's home."

But Mary Snow did not answer. She had caught Bailey Armstrong's smile as he passed down the room, and even the ideal city faded into insignificance as a warm thrill called the color into her cheeks, and made Gertrude say as she glanced up at her:

"How pretty you look, Mary. I wouldn't suppose you were a day over eighteen."



CHAPTER XII

Skirmishing

When Gertrude returned to her office a man sat waiting for her, a big, burly looking man with an evil-looking eye.

"I want to talk with you alone," he said when she had taken her seat. "Can't you send the others out?"

She was surprised at the request and started to say that her private secretary must be present at all interviews; when she thought better of it and motioned the stenographer and Miss Snow to go out.

"Now we can talk business," said the man, drawing his chair up closer. "See here, my name is McAlister. I've the contract for laying out the avenue from Hayden Park to the Boulevard."

"And you are doing the work?" asked Gertrude.

"Yes, I'm doing the work all right," returned McAlister. "But this smart Alec you have in the law department may make trouble—and expense for the city," he added.

"Just how, Mr. McAlister?" asked Gertrude so smoothly as to cause the big contractor to take fresh courage.

"Well, you know when a lawyer is put into a public position—city solicitor or district attorney, or whatever—the first thing he does is to look for something that he can rip up the back."

"And what is the matter with your contract?" Her tones were dulcet now.

"Nothing at all. My contract is all right," replied the man. "But Armstrong is putting up a bluff and threatens to have it overhauled."

"But why?" persisted the mayor.

"Now look here, your Honor," urged the man confidentially. "Your father was a politician. He knew all the tricks of the trade. He made his pile all right, one way or another."

"Mr. McAlister!" Gertrude's voice had a new note.

"O, hold yourself close, now," said he. "No harm meant. Senator Van Deusen was as fine a man as Roma ever produced. And if I didn't vote for you—it wasn't because I wouldn't do anything for his daughter. But now,—well, let's make it a mutual thing. You protect me and my interests and I'll stick by you, and where I go, there go several hundred other good voters."

"The scoundrel!" said Gertrude to her inmost soul. But she did not change countenance.

"Well, I will look into the matter," she replied. "If your contract is all right—and you say it is—the city will certainly stand by you. Of course I could not promise anything more definite than that now. But I will look into the matter and advise Mr. Armstrong."

"O, don't take your time to look up a contract a year old," said McAlister. "It won't be worth your while. Take my word,—the word of one who worked night and day for your father,—and just call Armstrong off. He'll find enough in the bridge department to keep him busy, if he must stir things up anywhere."

"I will speak to Mr. Armstrong," said Gertrude, rising and pushing the electric button as a signal for the others to return. There was nothing for McAlister to do but depart, wondering just how much he had gained by the interview.

"If she goes to looking into old contracts—" he muttered as he went down the stairs—and then whistled sharply.

When he was well out of sight, Gertrude sent for Bailey Armstrong.

"What are you doing to one McAlister?" she asked. "A street contractor, I believe he is."

"Nothing, as yet. Why?" asked the city attorney.

"Well, he's just left me," replied the mayor. "Says you are going to 'rip his contract up the back,'—to quote him literally."

"Aha!" said Bailey. "Then he's afraid, is he? I've done nothing as yet, but I heard something the other day that caused me to suspect trouble in that direction. See here, Gertie, just how far do you want me to go in this 'ripping-up-the-back' business? I'm positive if we once begin we'll find graft on every side of us. Then trouble will begin, you know,—trouble for you, I mean."

"Never mind me," she answered. "What am I here for if it is not to purify city government? I don't expect to make friends in the process; but if I can serve the city—and thereby my state and my country, why,—" She stopped and looked fearlessly at Armstrong.

"Then I shall go ahead—looking into the matter of contracts and appropriations?" he asked.

"Certainly," she replied. "No matter whom it hits, investigate every department of the administration."

"Bravo!" said he. "You're a chip of the old block all right." Gertrude remembered with a twinge of apprehension what McAlister had said about her father's "pile." "But you must be prepared for war—underhanded, tricky, politicians' war," added Bailey.

A week later he appeared again at her office and asked for a private interview.

"Gertrude," he began, "it's as I feared about McAlister. He has an infamous contract—or, rather, a whole set of them—and he is fleecing the city with every yard of pavement he puts down."

"That doesn't surprise me," replied the Mayor. "It's the scared bird that flutters."

"He has a separate contract for every 300 square yards of pavement he lays," said Armstrong. "Instead of accepting the terms of the lowest bidder, the board of aldermen let him these contracts. It is a wrong system from the start. We ought to have a competitive system and award our contracts to the lowest bidder who will do good work. Instead of that, there seems to have been some sort of chicanery by which McAlister was given all these little contracts,—on every one of which he makes a big profit,—while the other bidders were not even considered."

"Who has the giving out of contracts, anyway? Oughtn't there to be a regular system about it?"

"There should be a law about it," said Bailey. "But I find nothing in the city charter. And I find that contracts have been given out by aldermen, councilmen or mayor, just as happened to suit their notions best."

"Suppose you go to work, Bailey, and draft me a bill providing that every piece of work to be done for the city shall be open to all bidders. We must have some definite plans of considering and acting on these bids—so that none of the officials can give out contracts without such action and vote as the whole council and the mayor think best. Better make it obligatory that the bids be opened in the presence of all who may wish to be present and in the presence of, or by, the mayor. That would be something I'd like to establish in my term—something to be remembered."

"Not only that," said Armstrong, "but no contract should be considered binding on the city without the mayor's signature of approval."

"Go ahead and draw it up," said the Mayor. "And then we'll have a meeting of the Common Council and get it adopted."

But while it was easy enough to draw up and elaborate the bill, it was not so simple a matter to get it passed. A meeting was called and every one of the Common Council came. Then Gertrude began to count her strength, and to find that a man's pocketbook is next to his heart in more senses than one.

It was a stormy meeting—this first one over which the woman-mayor presided. Mason and Turner and several others of the new members of the city council worked ably to get the proposed amendment to the charter through; but every alderman and a majority of the Council were against it. The debate was hot and turbulent. Several times the mayor had to bring down her gavel sharply, and call to order men much older and better versed in parliamentary tactics than herself. And when it was all over, the assembly had voted to lay the whole matter on the table!

"It all comes to just this, I am afraid," said Gertrude to Armstrong and Mary Snow when it was all over and they were back in the mayor's office. "They all fear exposure of one kind or another. How much do you suppose they want to conceal?"

"There is nothing hid which cannot be found out," retorted Bailey, "and by the great horn spoon, I'll find it out."

"They may wish they had voted 'yes' before they get through with this," said Mary Snow. "For they must know that you have access to every sort of record in the city, if you choose."

"And I choose," responded Miss Van Deusen. "I'll go through every contract, now we're started. That reminds me, Bailey, McAlister hinted that you could find plenty to do in the bridge department, if you must 'rip things up the back'. I would look into that, too, if I were you."

"Yes—and this new franchise the street railway is so nearly concluding," he answered. "O, we'll be enough for them yet. When are you going to appoint a new street commissioner? Perhaps that might precipitate things a little."

"Tomorrow, then, I'll ask for Thalberg's resignation," was the reply. "How would John Allingham do for that place? I've been thinking it might be a good thing all around."

"Splendid," cried Bailey. "He'd like it, too. He likes a good fight—always did."

"Would he, do you think? Under a woman-mayor?" she added.

"I think so. It's different now you are elected, you know. Ever notice how much easier it is to support an innovation after it is well started than before?"

"Then come, Minnie," she said, turning to the stenographer. "Take this to Mr. Thalberg;" and she proceeded to dictate a letter advising him that his resignation, taking effect immediately, would be acceptable to the mayor.

Then she dictated another as follows:

Mr. John Allingham, Municipal League Rooms; City.

Dear Mr. Allingham:

Will you do me the favor to call at this office Thursday, the seventeenth, at ten a. m., and oblige,

Gertrude Van Deusen, Mayor of Roma.

Which, when Allingham opened and read it late that afternoon, caused him to give vent to a long, low whistle, and to read it over the second time.

But he wrote, immediately, accepting the appointment; and a dozen times that night he asked himself what she could want of him—and just how much he would be willing to help the woman-mayor.

Then, looking out across the moonlit city from his tower window, he recalled that other night when they rode together in the open country beneath the shining moon—when she was not the candidate, the mayor-elect, the modern strenuous woman—but just a sweet and gracious spirit with a melodious voice and a presence that thrilled him. Then he told himself, "Yes, anything—anything she wants."

And Gertrude, in the silence of her own room, was saying to herself, "Will he come, I wonder? Would I, if I were in his place? If I were a man who had been brought up to believe as he does about women; and then a modern suffragist who had won out over me, had sent for me,—to ask me to come and help—would I go? Oh, how do I know?"



CHAPTER XIII

An Important Appointment

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."



CHAPTER XIV

Graft

Two weeks later, the fluffy little member of the Progressive Workers presented herself one morning at the rooms of the Mayor and requested a private interview. Probably she was the last woman in Roma one would have suspected of wanting to take a hand in politics. Yet, here she was.

"Why, Bella, is it you?" asked Gertrude. "What is it? Don't they keep your street clean? or empty your ash can often enough?"

"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."



CHAPTER XV

Setting the Trap

Her next two days were given up to the study of the treasurer's books—and the financial system of government in Roma. The process necessitated looking up many details regarding salaries and other expenses, which took time and careful scrutiny on the part of both her and her office assistants. What the Mayor found out the first day led her to send for a trained accountant, whom she set quietly at work on the second morning. That night she sent for Armstrong to come to her house.

"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.



CHAPTER XVI

Divided Interests

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?



CHAPTER XVII

A Dumbfounded Populace

Just one week after Vickery's last call, the district attorney and the city solicitor met in the mayor's office. The former official, Robert Joyce, was a young man with most of his reputation to gain; and he had welcomed the Vickery case as an excellent weapon with which to gain it. How he had happened to win his office was a cause for wonder to some people, until they stopped to remember that all interest in the election of the previous winter had been centered on the mayor; and that although the rank and file of voters knew that Joyce was making a fight for his candidacy, none of them had believed he could win over the old incumbent, and had paid little heed to his political efforts. His election was one of the surprises of the campaign, but even that was not much talked about, in the excitement of proclaiming the woman for mayor of Roma.

Now, as once before, he saw his opportunity and seized it. For the past week he had done little else but probe the affairs of the Boulevard Railway scheme, scarcely eating or sleeping while he pursued the case with all the eagerness of a hound after his first fox. Gertrude Van Deusen could not have found a better ally than Robert Joyce, and she knew it. He had already secured evidence and managed his case so well that the grand jury would bring in a bill for indictment, not only against Orlando Vickery, but against Otis H. Mann, chairman of the board of aldermen. The case was to be brought up in court on the following morning.

"I must congratulate you, Mr. Joyce, upon your quick and able work," said she. "I wanted the case hurried along, and you have surely done it."

"Mr. Armstrong has helped greatly," returned Joyce. "He has a good deal of inside knowledge, and it didn't take long to convince us both that there was a vast amount of corruption. How to clinch the evidence has been the problem. But you say you are willing to go on the witness stand?"

"I am—and Miss Snow also," answered the mayor. "I should think our evidence enough."

"It is; and yet, while we are about it we want to catch the whole outfit. We don't want to leave any loop-holes for the criminals—for they will have an expert to defend them; you may be sure of that. Some of the old aldermen may confess. They will pin their faith to confession as the rock of salvation for them. But that is just the beginning. We are after the big man, the man who debauches as well as the man who receives. This is no partial house-cleaning. Fordham, the agent of the Roma Telephone Company, who handed the old board $1,000 each, is now on his way back from China. To save his skin, he may tell us about the money which his corporation has so generously handed over to the supervisors. Then the Telephone Company, composed of men high in the social circles of this city (with its franchise bought for a paltry few thousand dollars) will have to show its books, and if we can reach the guilty ones, on the top, indictments will soon be moving their way. I think within the next month we will have indictments from the grand jury for at least four of the more-holier-than-thou sort. That is where the bomb is going to fall, unless my plans miscarry most woefully."

"You see there are lively times ahead," added Bailey Armstrong. "There is a man—one on whom a great deal depends—whom we want to bring to confession. He is the son of your father's old coachman—Fitzgerald."

"Newton Fitzgerald?" asked Gertrude. "The one who has a saloon over on the south side?"

"Yes—and, unfortunately for us, a properly certified license," answered Bailey. "He is a tough character, but when a boy he had a soft side. Do you suppose you could reach him, Gertie?"

"Possibly," she answered thoughtfully. "I used to have a good deal of influence over Newton when he lived in our cottage as a boy. Don't you remember—I got him to go to school regularly, and saved him from the truant officer's clutches on two or three occasions?"

"He used to swear by you," said Bailey. "Couldn't you manage to see him now, and get him to talk?"

"Get him to confess, if you can," added Joyce. "Offer him immunity if he will tell you all he knows—and I suspect that is a good deal."

"Yes, I'll do that," answered the mayor. "I'll telephone now to his place and ask him to come over and see me."

They talked on for another half-hour, and when the two men left, their plans were all made. Gertrude and Mary Snow were to appear at the court house next morning, both ready to give valuable testimony against the grafters, testimony which would convict them out of Vickery's own mouth.

When she was alone, Gertrude at once took up her telephone and called up Newton Fitzgerald's saloon.

"Is Mr. Fitzgerald in?" she asked.

"He has just stepped out," was the answer.

"Tell him, when he comes in, to please call at the mayor's office before he goes home," replied Gertrude, "Miss Van Deusen wishes to speak with him."

She hung up her receiver and turned back to the duties of her desk. It was nearly five o'clock before she heard anything further. Then her telephone rang and a strange voice came over the wire.

"Mr. Fitzgerald has fallen and sprained his knee. He has to be put to bed, but wants to know if you won't come to see him tonight. He wants to talk with you about the investigation—has something to tell you."

"Where does he live?" asked the mayor.

"In the Sutherland," was the reply, "the big apartment building back of the American House."

"Very well. Tell him I will be there with Miss Snow at eight o'clock," she answered; and then she called Mary Snow and told her of the appointment.

"Don't you think we ought to take someone else along?—a man—Bailey Armstrong, say?"

"O, no," returned the Mayor, confidently. "Fitzgerald would not talk before him—or any other man—in my opinion. He was a peculiar boy, but I could manage him. It will be better for us to go alone—and quietly. We won't even take the carriage. I'll come down on the car at a quarter before eight and meet you at Harne's drug store. Then we'll just go quietly up to Fitzgerald's flat. I know his wife."

"Very well," said Mary. If she did not feel quite satisfied with the plan, it was not for her to question the mayor's authority, and she said no more.

But the next morning the newspapers brought a new sensation to a startled city. Two important pieces of news furnished excitement enough to arouse even the staid and respectable old Atlas. People gathered in knots on street corners to discuss them. The air was breezy with excitement. The street corners were blocked with gathering knots of indignant citizens, eager crowds gathered in front of newspaper bulletin boards, questioning among themselves whether there was any respect for law and order left in Roma; whether life was safe on the open street; whether the public was to be fooled any longer by charlatans and tricksters; whether the police could or would do anything in the premises. In short, every citizen of Roma, rich or poor, old or young, was aroused at last by these two bits of news.

The startling news was—

Orlando Vickery had "jumped his bail" and disappeared; and

The Mayor and her private secretary had not been seen nor heard from since they left the drug-store the previous evening at a quarter before eight.



CHAPTER XVIII

A Futile Search

It would seem that in a city of fifty thousand inhabitants, it would be impossible for the Mayor and his (or her) private secretary to drop so suddenly and completely from sight as to leave no trace or clue behind them; yet such was the fact. Knowing Fitzgerald to be of a peculiar temperament, Gertrude had arranged to meet him as quietly as possible. Had her cousin, Jessie Craig, been at home, she would have told her where she was going, but that lady had gone to Philadelphia for a few days' visit, and there was no one in the Van Deusen home but the servants, to whom Miss Van Deusen had merely remarked that she was going out and would be back, probably, about ten.

Mary Snow lived in an apartment hotel and occupied her two-room suite in spinster independence, carrying her own latch-key and accounting to no one for her goings and comings. So accustomed had the clerks and elevator-boys become to seeing her come in, during her newspaper days, at all hours of the night, that they paid little heed to her movements. So there was no one to feel any alarm when midnight came and they did not return from their excursion to the suffering Fitzgerald.

Towards morning, however, when Miss Van Deusen failed to appear, the old butler who had known her so many years, became alarmed, and at daylight telephoned to Bailey Armstrong. The news came to him with a shock, but he went at once to Miss Snow's hotel, thinking the Mayor might have stayed there for some reason. When he found them both missing, he became alarmed, sent for the chief of police and the district attorney, and telegraphed Jessie Craig to return.

A systematic search was instituted, detectives set to work, and all the majestic machinery of the law put in motion. It had happened strangely enough, that the proprietor of the drug-store which had been their rendezvous was out when the two women had met there, and neither of the two young clerks knew the Mayor or her secretary by sight. Consequently, there was not a soul who had seen or recognized either of them after they had set out for the appointment with Fitzgerald. Neither had anyone known of that appointment; nor would it have mattered in the least if they had, since, Fitzgerald himself, alive and well, had known nothing of the engagement made in his name, and was even now talking loudly against the outrage and the shame of what was plainly foul play.

"Kidnaping," every other man said, and believed, and the detectives were on a still hunt again for the mysterious electric cab of election eve. In this particular line of search John Allingham was bending all his energies. Every garage in the city was visited and made to account for each one of its machines. No chauffeur was left unquestioned, and the records were thoroughly examined—all with the foolish consciousness that nothing could be easier than for some private owner or renter of an automobile to have skimmed quietly away with the mayor in his tonneau, quite out of reach of the law. As the day passed, rumors of flying automobiles came in from all directions, making a hopeless confusion of clues that led nowhere.

At City Hall, the chairman of the board of aldermen took the helm, becoming acting-mayor for the time being. Although he directed the search for the mayor and her secretary with much skill and patience, the Honorable Otis H. Mann was enjoying an inflated sense of independence, such as does not come often to a small man on large occasions.

As the day closed and no news came from the missing women, the excitement grew. Crowds gathered on the streets and squares, until someone, by a happy thought, called for a mass-meeting in Masonic Temple. If Gertrude could have heard the speeches made there, and noted the sympathy and pride of her townspeople, she would have felt her strength renewed as the eagle. For however they might have been divided in opinion before, every man, woman and child were solidly for her now. A great wave of indignation had swept the city, and left the public heart alive with love and sorrow for the brave young woman who had dared take up this burden. Although they talked hopefully and determinedly of perfecting their search and restoring her to her office, many a heart was cherishing a great fear that death, or worse than death, had already overtaken her.

"A terrible thing has befallen us," one of the speakers was saying. "And an awful state of affairs exists when the mayor of our own city can be completely swallowed up—and hidden from all pursuit—in an evening. When we remember that it is a woman—two women—of the highest breeding and inheritance who have been so foully dealt with, we are overwhelmed with a sense of disaster."

"But we must find a way—we must organize our forces," interrupted another. "They must, they shall be found."

There was much ardent talk, but little practical advice, and when Bailey Armstrong and John Allingham left the hall together, the hearts of both were heavy.

"I'd give all I've got in the world to find those two," said Bailey. "But between you and me, it looks pretty dark. There was something queer about it. Why should Gertrude go out at night alone? Why didn't she call on me to go with her? She often did, if no one else was going—from the house, I mean."

"Did you hear her say anything about an appointment?—or Miss Snow?" asked Allingham. "Evidently they had one."

"Not a word. I was in the office yesterday. We talked things over, some. I asked her—" Bailey stopped. "Say, she was going to telephone Newton Fitzgerald to come up. You don't suppose he's in it?"

"Let's go over to his saloon," said Allingham. "Here's a car coming now."

But when they got over there, Fitzgerald was declaiming loudly gainst the rotten politics of Roma.

"I've known her since she was a kid," he was saying to a gang of beery individuals around his door, "and she's been an angel of light to me an' mine. I voted for her—yes, I'm proud to say I did, against the party though it was. And I shall do it again, if she comes back alive. Why, I found a note on my desk this morning when I came in, that my barkeeper put there, saying she'd telephoned for me to come up to the Hall yesterday afternoon. I'd a' gone, only I was out of town and didn't get back here last night at all. Mebbe I'd 've been of use to her some way if I'd been on time. Anyway, I'm going on a still hunt for her tomorrow, all by my lonesome."

"He's sincere enough," remarked Bailey. "Newton's a good-hearted fellow. He always liked Gertrude."

They walked back and soon separated for the night, but neither of them slept, for thinking of those two, so suddenly and mysteriously snatched away.

As John Allingham walked home he lived over again the exciting evening before election. He recalled the moonlit night, the rushing automobile, the ghostly shadows chasing themselves in swift procession ever behind him. He remembered the shock and the overturn and finding himself face to face with Gertrude Van Deusen on the pine-shaded road. He lived again through the rushing ride home, hearing again her silvery voice as she talked, and feeling again the indefinable charm of her presence. He forgot—that she was doing a man's work; he thought only of her femininity and grace and beauty. Then, realizing afresh the calamity that had befallen the city, he groaned aloud.

"Oh, my God!" he muttered. "If she is lost—"

Then he knew, all suddenly and with a great heartache, that he loved a woman—that she was Gertrude Van Deusen—and that she was lost, and that she might be dead, or in great misery and sorrow.

"Good God," he cried, "what can I do to help her?"



CHAPTER XIX

The Boodlers Score

A week later, there was a meeting of the city council, at the mayor's office, called by the chairman of the board of aldermen, to "discuss the unusual state of affairs and find a way out," as Mr. Otis H. Mann put it. Every member was present, and Mr. Mann counted his supporters carefully as he opened the meeting for business. The mayor's friends were strong and outspoken, he decided, but they were not in the majority. He began by making a rather neat speech, deploring the state of things in Roma, and trusting that the citizens' committee, which had been organized the week before for the purpose of discovering the absent officials, would be successful.

"A terrible condition of municipal affairs exists," he went on smoothly, "when its chief magistrate can be abducted and kept hidden, without—or with?—her own volition for a whole week. Only in the extravaganzas of modern romance could we look for similar happenings. Just what is our duty in the premises, gentlemen, is a serious question. The citizens' committee has taken the work of restoring our mayor to her place out of our hands; but I think we should assure them of our co-operation and offer to place every means of assistance at their disposal. Will some one make a motion to that effect?"

The motion was quickly made and seconded, but before it was put Mr. Turner was on his feet.

"I wish to be put on record," he began, "as of the opinion that it is nothing to our credit that the citizens had to call a mass-meeting and form their own committee. We should have led in this work, and if we could not do that, every one of us should have been on the committee. May I inquire why but five of the councilmen are identified with the movement to find Miss Van Deusen and her secretary—to discover the perpetrators of this outrage and bring them to punishment?"

"The member is unduly excited," replied the chairman, in his most unctuous tones. "It is not easy to know what to do in the position which has suddenly been forced upon me—a condition without precedent, so far as I know, in the whole country. If I have failed in my duty, I ask your pardon; but with so many local issues—so many details at loose ends in the mayor's office—I beg your pardon, gentlemen, for mentioning this."

"Question, question," called a voice with a strong accent from the back row. "Question—I call for the question," echoed another.

The chairman hastened to put the motion and the expression of sympathy and co-operation with the citizens' committee was unanimous.

"The motion seems to prevail—the motion prevails. The secretary is instructed to communicate this vote at once," added the chairman.

"And now I must add, by the force of stringent necessity which I find in my endeavor to carry on the work of our mayor," said the chairman, "that it became necessary for us to transact a little business here tonight. Exigencies are arising which make it important to have some action taken on the sub-letting of contracts. Will some member move that the present incumbent be given discretionary power to act in these matters?"

"No, no," shouted Turner, and was echoed by two or three others. But Blatchley rose and moved that the chairman of the board of aldermen be allowed to go ahead with all the city's business during the indefinite absence of the mayor, using his discretion therein.

The motion was seconded by several others and when Mr. Mason arose, there was a chorus of "Question, question," from the opposite faction. He would not give way, however, and stood his ground for some moments, arguing for fair play, and finally offering a substitute motion, asking that no contracts be given out and only routine business be transacted while the present crisis was on; but he might as well have talked to the vagrant wind. Not over half a dozen men present were in entire sympathy with him, and they were helpless. It soon became evident that the others had been primed for this meeting—as indeed was the case, every doubtful one having been called to a private confab with the acting mayor, and promised something for good behavior.

"Isn't there an ordinance that prevents our taking any action whatever, until the mayor has been absent a fortnight?" finally asked Mason.

"That ordinance was changed two years ago," replied the chairman. "The time is now limited to one week."

"And you have waited just that," replied Mr. Mason, sitting down. He saw it was impossible to struggle any longer.

So the acting mayor was given full power to do what he pleased while the mayor was still secluded. Fortunately, it was voted to keep this decision from the newspapers; for feeling was growing daily more bitter against the city council, and the people were already asking how much the aldermen knew about the abduction of their woman-mayor, and why they were not more active in the search for her.



CHAPTER XX

An Enforced Vacation

When Gertrude Van Deusen decided to go to see Newton Fitzgerald on that eventful evening, she thought first, as has been intimated already, of calling on Bailey Armstrong to escort her. But as she hoped to win Newton's confidence, and did not like to have her visit known to others, she believed that by going quietly, alone with Mary Snow, she would be doing wisely. And so the two met at the drug-store, as previously arranged, and attracted no attention whatever.