the Methodist ministry. In his preaching to the freedmen he had already become a marked man. No house could hold his audiences.
As he stepped briskly into the dining-room and passed the brown woman, a close observer might have seen him suddenly press her hand and caught her sly answering smile, but the old man waiting at the head of the table saw nothing.
The woman took her seat opposite Stoneman and presided over this curious group with the easy assurance of conscious power. Whatever her real position, she knew how to play the rôle she had chosen to assume.
No more curious or sinister figure ever cast a shadow across the history of a great nation than did this mulatto woman in the most corrupt hour of American life. The grim old man who looked into her sleek tawny face and followed her catlike eyes was steadily gripping the Nation by the throat. Did he aim to make this woman the arbiter of its social life, and her ethics the limit of its moral laws?
Even the white satellite who sat opposite Lynch flushed for a moment as the thought flashed through his brain.
The old cynic, who alone knew his real purpose, was in his most genial mood to-night, and the grim lines of his powerful face relaxed into something like a smile as they ate and chatted and told good stories.
Lynch watched him with keen interest. He knew his history and character, and had built on his genius a brilliant scheme of life.
This man who meant to become the dictator of the
