"I'll kill _your_ vote, Craven Peyton!" came a voice. "I vote, Mr.
Sheriff, for Lewis Rand!"

"Ludwell Cary!" cried another, "and there's a killer killed, Dick
Carr!"

"I'll draw a bead on you, Gentry!" put in a third. "The best shot in the
county, Mr. Sheriff, and that's Lewis Rand!"

"Lewis Rand stands ten ahead!" cried a committee-man; and the sheriff,
"Gentlemen, gentlemen! order at the polls!"

A small, wizened man, middle-aged and elaborately dressed in much
ancient and tarnished finery, came bowing through the crowd. A curled
wig shadowed a narrow face, and lace ruffles fell over long-fingered
hands, yellow as old ivory. The entire figure was fantastic, even a
little grotesque, though after a pleasant fashion. In a mincing voice
and with a strong French accent, M. Achille Pincornet, dancing-master
and performer on the violin, intimated that he wished to vote for Mr.
Ludwell Cary. Lewis Rand glanced sharply up, then made a sign to a
sandy-haired and freckled man who, tally in hand, stood near him.

"I challenge that vote!" cried the man with the tally.

"Mr. Pincornet's vote is challenged!" shouted the sheriff.

"Order, order, gentlemen! Your reason, Mr. Mocket?"

"The gentleman is a Frenchman and not a citizen of the United States! He
is not even a citizen of the French Republic! He is an émigré. He has no