Peter left the office, knowing that that chance of pressure was gone. If
the papers of the Republican party would not use it, it was idle
spending time in seeing or trying to see the editors of the Democratic
papers. He wasted therefore no more efforts on newspapers.

The next three days Peter passed in the New York Law Institute Library,
deep in many books. Then he packed his bag, and took an afternoon train
for Albany. He was going to play his last card, with the odds of a
thousand to one against his winning. But that very fact only nerved him
the more.

Promptly at ten o'clock, the morning after his arrival at the state
capital, he sent in his card to the Governor. Fortunately for him, the
middle of August is not a busy time with that official, and after a
slight delay, he was ushered into the executive chamber.

Peter had been planning this interview for hours, and without
explanation or preamble, he commenced his statement. He knew that he
must interest the Governor promptly, or there would be a good chance of
his being bowed out. So he began with a description of the cow-stables.
Then he passed to the death of the little child. He sketched both
rapidly, not taking three minutes to do it, but had he been pleading for
his own life, he could not have spoken more earnestly nor feelingly.

The Governor first looked surprised at Peter's abruptness; then weary;
then interested; and finally turned his revolving chair so as to put his
back to Peter. And after Peter had ended his account, he remained so for
a moment. That back was very expressive to Peter. For the first time he
felt vanquished.