"I don't care how, You've got detectives, haven't you? Find out
all about him, where he comes from, who his people were. Rake his
life with a fine tooth comb from the day he was born. He's a bad
egg. We all know that. Dig up facts to prove it."

Within the hour detectives were set to work. One of them left next
day for Shelby. Another covered the neighborhoods where Jeff had
lived in Verden. Henceforth wherever he went he was shadowed.

It was about this time that Samuel Miller lost his place in the
city library on account of his political opinions. For more than a
year he and Jeff had roomed together at a private boarding house
kept by a Mrs. Anderson. Within twentyfour hours of his dismissal
Miller was on the road, sent out by the campaign committee of his
party to make speeches throughout the state.

Jeff himself was speaking nearly every night now that the day of
election was drawing near. This, together with the work of editing
the paper and the strain of the battle, told heavily on a vitality
never too much above par. He would come back to his rooms fagged
out, often dejected because some friend had deserted to the enemy.

One cold rainy evening he met Nellie Anderson in the hall. She had
been saying good-bye to some friends who had been in to call on
her.

"You're wet, Mr. Farnum," the young woman said.

"A little."