The paper was unfolded and glanced at, then up went the hand and down floated the fateful sheet on to the left-hand pile.

"Twenty-one for Therne." Again the process was repeated, and again the left-hand pile was increased.

"Twenty-two for Therne." "By heaven! you've tied him," gasped Stephen Strong.
There were but seven papers left, and the candidate who secured four of them would be the winner of the election.
"Twenty-three for Therne, twenty-four, twenty-five"-- a silence in which you could hear the breath of other men and the beating of your own heart.
"_Twenty-six for Therne_, twenty-seven, twenty-eight, twenty-nine, all for Therne." Then, bursting from the lips of Stephen Strong, a shrill hoarse cry, more like the cry of a beast than that of a man, and the words, "By God! we've won.

The A.V.'s have done it.

Bravo the A.V.'s!" "Silence!" said the Mayor, bringing his fist down upon the table, but so far as Stephen Strong was concerned, the order was superfluous, for suddenly his face flushed, then turned a dreadful ashen grey, and down he sank upon the floor.