But though he heard a great deal about Verner, there was one thing
that continually eluded him; something that nobody knew, that even
Saltoun had not known. He could not find out how Verner had
originally made his money.
"He must have kept it specially dark," said Horne Fisher to himself.
"It must be something he's really ashamed of. Hang it all! what _is_
a man ashamed of nowadays?"
And as he pondered on the possibilities they grew darker and more
distorted in his mind; he thought vaguely of things remote and
repulsive, strange forms of slavery or sorcery, and then of ugly
things yet more unnatural but nearer home. The figure of Verner
seemed to be blackened and transfigured in his imagination, and to
stand against varied backgrounds and strange skies.
As he strode up a village street, brooding thus, his eyes
encountered a complete contrast in the face of his other rival, the
Reform candidate. Eric Hughes, with his blown blond hair and eager
undergraduate face, was just getting into his motor car and saying a
few final words to his agent, a sturdy, grizzled man named Gryce.
Eric Hughes waved his hand in a friendly fashion; but Gryce eyed him
with some hostility. Eric Hughes was a young man with genuine
political enthusiasms, but he knew that political opponents are
people with whom one may have to dine any day.
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