Kent let slip a hard word directed at ill-advisers in general, and Loring
took his cue from the malediction.

"You swear pretty feelingly, David. Isn't our property as good a thing as
we of the Boston end have been cracking it up to be?"

"You know better about the financial part of it than I do. But--well, you
are fresh from this anarchistic conclave at the Opera House. You can
imagine what the stock of the Western Pacific, or of any other foreign
corporation doing business in this State, will be worth in six months
after Bucks and his crowd get into the saddle."

"You speak as if the result of the election were a foregone conclusion. I
hope it isn't. But we were talking more particularly of Miss Brentwood,
and your personal responsibilities." The belated train was whistling for
the lower yard, and Loring was determined to say all that was in his mind.

"Yes; go on. I'm anxious to hear--more anxious than I seem to be,
perhaps."

"Well, she is coming West, after a bit. She, and her sister and the
mother. Mrs. Brentwood's asthma is worse, and the wise men have ordered
her to the interior. I thought you'd like to know."

"Is she--are they coming this way?" asked Kent.

The train was in, and the porter had fetched Loring's hand-bag from the
check-stand. The guest paused with one foot on the step of the
sleeping-car.