and went into the private room, scene of many conferences between the labor leader and Bricky Hoover the workmen's champion.
An aproned waiter came in and stood at attention.
"Bring a glass of vermouth for this lady," said Lamar, "and the usual whiskey for me; and be quick about it."
He sat at the table and held his head in his hand, but he did not speak to her again until the drinks had been served.
Now that she saw him clearly in the light of the hanging electric lamp, she saw that he was changed. His face was gray, haggard and unshaven, and when his blood-shot eyes were open they rolled strangely. It was no wonder that his appearance gave evidence of the strain and suffering he had undergone. He had passed three terrible days and nights since that moment when he had seen this woman pillow the blood-stained head of the preacher on her breast, and had heard her declare her love for him. He had scarcely given a second thought to the fact that his position as a labor-leader was in jeopardy if it was not entirely lost; that the workingmen who had followed him blindly and confidently in times past had now turned upon him, denounced him and repudiated him. But that the woman with whom, as the whole city knew, he was desperately in love should publicly, shamelessly, in his very presence, declare her passionate fondness for this discredited priest, that was more than human nature could endure. It roused every bitter, hateful, malignant passion of which his heart was capable. He had sought her at her home and she had refused to see him. The refusal had made him desperate. So, without sleep, without food, torn with jealousy, consumed by rage, his brain fired by constant and deep potations, he had waited and watched his chance to settle with her. Now he had it.
