WHEN Sir Charles Repton woke upon the Tuesday morning he felt better than he had felt at any moment since the loss of his youth. There seemed something easy in the air about him, and within his mind a lack of business and friction which he did not account for at the time, but which perhaps in a vague manner he may have ascribed to the purity of the air and the beauty of the day.

The sun was streaming into his windows from over the Park. It was already warm, and as he dressed and shaved himself he allowed his thoughts to wander with an unaccustomed freedom over the simple things of life. He noted the colour of the trees; he was glad to see the happiness of the passers-by in the streets below; he felt an unaccountable sympathy with the human race, and he was even touched with contempt as he gazed at the long procession of wealthy houses which marked the line of Park Lane.

At breakfast he ate heartily, though he was alone; he looked at the small batch of letters which awaited him, and when he opened his newspaper he positively laughed at the opinions expressed in the leading article. He nearly broke into another laugh as he read the news from America, and then—with a gesture which horrified the two solemn servants who had watched the unaccountable change in their master’s manner, he tore the paper rapidly into four pieces and threw it on the floor. Having done this he jumped up gaily, nodded to the menials, said “You didn’t expect that,” walked briskly out, took his hat and coat and with no conscious purpose but as habit moved him jumped into a motor-bus going East.

The conductor, who had a respect for Sir Charles Repton’s clothes, and especially for his spats, and who seemed to recognise his face, asked him gently how much he desired to spend upon a ticket: to which he answered in a breezy manner, “Penny of course. Never pay more than a penny; then if the beastly thing breaks down you’re not out of pocket ... ’sides which,” he went on as though talking to himself, “if they forget about you you can have tuppence-worth or thruppence-worth for the same money!” And he chuckled.

The conductor looked at him first in terror, then smiled responsively and went forward to deal with less fortunate people, while Sir Charles hummed gently to himself,—a little out of tune but none the less cheerfully on that account—an air of ribald associations.The top of the bus was pretty full, and a workman who had occasion to travel in the same direction as his betters saw fit to sit down in the one empty place beside the Baronet. It would have been difficult to decide upon what occupation this honest man had most recently been engaged: but there had certainly entered into it oil, wet clay, probably soot, and considerable masses of oxidised copper. It was not remarkable, therefore, that, beside such a companion, especially as that companion was a large man, Sir Charles should have found himself considerably incommoded. What was remarkable was the manner in which the Baronet expressed his annoyance. He turned round upon the workman with an irritated frown and said:

“I can’t make out why they allow people like you on omnibuses!”

“Yer carn’t wort?” said the breadwinner in a threatening voice.

“I say I · can’t · make · out,” answered Sir Charles, carefully picking out each word—“I · can’t · make · out · why · they · allow · people · like · you on omnibuses,—dirty brutes like you, I should say. Why the devil....”

At this moment the workman seized Sir Charles by the collar. Sir Charles, though an older man, was by no means weak; his tall body was well-knit and active, and he felt unaccountably brawny that morning; he got the thumb and forefinger of his left hand like a pitchfork under his opponent’s chin, and there began what promised to be a very pretty scuffle. Everybody on the top of the bus got up, a woman tittered, and a large consequential fellow who attempted to interfere received a violent backhander from the huge left hand of the Operative, the wrist of which was firmly grasped by the right of the Politician and was struggling in the air.

The bus stopped, a crowd gathered, the workman, as is customary with hard-working people, was easily appeased; Sir Charles, a good deal ruffled, got off the bus, and pressing two shillings into the hand of a policeman who was preparing to take notes, said loudly:

“That’s all right! You can’t do anything against me, and of course I can prevent the thing getting into the papers; but it’s always better to give a policeman money,—safe rule!”

With that he wormed his way through the increasing mob and disappeared into a taxi, the driver of which, with singular sagacity, drove off rapidly without asking for any direction. When he was well out of it, Repton put his head out of the window and addressed the driver in the following remarkable words:

“I don’t really know where you’d better go: of course if you go to my Club I could change there” (his collar was torn off him and his hat was badly battered) “but on the whole you’d better take me to Guy’s—No you hadn’t, go to the Club. Stop at a Boy Messenger’s on your way.”“What Club, sir?” asked the driver with the deference due to a man at once wealthy and mad.

“You won’t know it,” said Sir Charles kindly and still craning in a constrained manner out of the window. “By the way, why don’t they have a speaking-tube or something from inside to you people? It’s awkward turning one’s head outside like a snake. You won’t know it, but I’ll shout to you when we get to the bottom of St. James’s Street.”

The driver, now convinced that he had to do with something quite out of the ordinary, touched his cap in a manner almost military, and fled through the streets of London. At a Boy Messenger’s office Sir Charles sent home for clothes and for a change, got to his Club, informed the astonished porter that it was a very fine day, that he had just had a fight on the top of a bus, that by God the Johnnie didn’t know who he was tackling! He, Sir Charles, was no longer a young man, but he would have shown him what an upper cut was if he could have got a free swing! He proceeded to illustrate the nature of this fence—then suddenly asked for his letters, and for a dressing-room.

After this, which had all been acted in the most rapid and violent manner, he ran up the steps, stood for a few moments with his hands in his pockets gazing at the telegrams, and forgetful that he had no collar on, that his coat was torn, that there was blood upon his hands, and that half of his waistcoat was wide open with two buttons missing. He found the telegrams of some interest; he did not notice the glances directed towards him by those who passed in and out of the building, nor the act of a page who in passing the porter’s box tapped his forehead twice with his forefinger.

He stood for a moment in thought, then it suddenly occurred to him that it would have been a wiser thing to have gone straight home. He got another taxi and drove to his house. There, after a brief scene with the footman in which he rehearsed all that he had already given them at the Club, he ordered his clothes to be put out for him, and took a very comfortable bath.

Luckily for him he found lying upon his table when he came down, a note which he had left there the night before with regard to the Van Diemens meeting.

“Forgot that,” he said, a little seriously. “Good thing I found it.”

He picked it up, folded it once or twice, unfolded it, re-read it perhaps three times, and while he was so employed heard the grave voice of his secretary begging him to go into town in the motor.

Repton did not for the moment see any connection between his recent adventures and this request, but he was all compliance, and nodding cheerfully he waited for the machine to come round. When it had come he looked at it closely for a moment, confided to the chauffeur that he intensely disliked its colour, but that it was a bargain and he wasn’t going to spend any money on changing it, because he meant to sell it to some fool at the end of the season—got in, and was driven to the Cannon Street Hotel.

He was a little late. The platform was already occupied and his empty chair was waiting for him.

At his entry there was some applause, such as would naturally greet the man who was known to be the Directing Brain of all that interest. None noticed a change in him. His clothes were perhaps a little less spick and span: it was unusual to see him stretch his arms two or three times before he sat down, and those who knew him best, in his immediate neighbourhood upon the platform, were astonished to see him smile and nod familiarly to several of the less important Directors; but on the whole he behaved himself in a fairly consecutive manner, and if he did whisper to a colleague upon his right that he looked as though he had been drinking a little too much overnight, the unaccustomed jest was allowed to pass without comment.

When the moment came for him to speak, he jumped up, perhaps a little too briskly, faced his audience with less than his usual solemnity, nay, with something very like a grin, and struck the first note of his great speech in a manner which they had hitherto never heard from his lips.

It was certainly calculated to compel their attention if not their conviction, for the very first words which he shouted into the body of the hall, were these:

“WHAT ARE WE HERE FOR?”

After that rhetorical question, delivered in a roar that would have filled the largest railway station in London, he repeated it in a somewhat lower tone, clenched his fists, struck them squarely on the table, and answered as though he were delivering a final judgment:

“MONEY!....

Ladies and gentlemen,” he went on, raising his right hand and wagging his forefinger at them—“we are here for money! And don’t you forget it!”

He blew a great breath, watched them quizzically a moment and then continued:

“What most of you most lack is the power of thinking clearly. I can see it in your faces. I can see it in the way you sit. And people who can’t think clearly don’t make money. No one can think clearly who hasn’t got a good grip of his first principles and doesn’t know first of all what he wants before he tries to get it. Well, I repeat it, and I challenge any one to deny it: what we want is money! Let us make that quite clear. Let us anchor ourselves to that ... and when we once have that thoroughly fixed in our minds we can go on to the matter of how we are to get it.”

“Now ladies and gentlemen,” he proceeded in a more conversational manner, rubbing his hands together, and smiling at them with excessive freedom, “let us first of all take stock. Sitting here before me and round me here upon this platform (he waved his right arm in a large gesture) are four million pounds of Van Diemens stock. Four million pounds, ladies and gentlemen! But wait a moment. At what price was that stock bought? I am not asking at what price I bought,”—here he looked to the left and the right, sweeping the hundreds of faces before him—“I am not asking at what price I bought: my position differs from yours, my hearties; I’m in the middle of things and my official position obtains me even more knowledge than I should gather with my own very excellent powers of observation: I’ve spent a whole lifetime in watching markets, and I have never cared a dump—I repeat, ladies and gentlemen, a DUMP, for anything except the profit. I have never listened to any talk about the ‘development of a country’ or ‘possibilities’ or ‘the future,’ or any kid of that sort. I’ve bought paper and sold paper ... and I’ve done uncommonly well out of it.”

He paused a moment, more for breath than for anything else, for he had been speaking very rapidly; and in the terrified silence round him Bingham was heard muttering as though in reply to some whispered question: “You leave him alone! It may be unconventional, but....”

“The question is, ladies and gentlemen, at what price have you bought ... on the average? Many of you are country parsons, many of you ladies with far more money than you have knowledge what to do with it. Not a few of you stock-brokers—an exceptionally inexperienced class of men—you are a fair average lot of British investors, and I ask at what price did you buy?” He looked at them fixedly for a few moments, then pulling out a scrap of paper he read it briefly:

“‘From figures that have been laid before me I find that the average price at which the present shareholders bought was eight pounds sixteen shillings and a few pence,’” and then added “We’ll call it eight pounds. Always be on the Conservative side.”

At this remark, which was supposed to contain a political jest, two old ladies in the second row tittered, but finding themselves alone, stopped tittering.

“I say take it at eight pounds. Well, that four million of stock stands for thirty-two million pounds. Thirty-two million pounds!” he said with a rising voice—“THIRTY-TWO MILLION POUNDS!” he roared,—banging the table with his fist and leaning forward with a determined jowl.... “And what’s left of it? Nothing!”

There was another dead silence at the end of this striking phrase, and Bingham was again heard to mutter: “You leave him alone; he knows what he’s at!” A certain uneasy shuffling of feet behind him caused Repton to turn his head snappishly, then he looked round again and resumed his great oration.“I say nothing.... Oh! I know there are some of you stupid enough to think that you have still got sixteen and thruppence a share. That was the quotation in the paper this morning. Eugh!” he sniffed sardonically, “You try and sell at that and you’ll soon find what you’ve got! No! you haven’t even got that sixteen and thruppence. You haven’t got two shillings in the pound for what you put in. You’ve got nothing! nothing! nothing!! Put that in your pipes and smoke it....”

“And so, gentlemen,” he added, leaning his body backwards and putting his thumbs into his waistcoat, “the business before us is how to get out of this hole. There are perhaps some of you,” he went on, frowning intellectually, “there are perhaps some of you who imagine that the Government is going to buy. Well, I’m a member of the Government and I can tell you they are not.”

At this appalling remark the elements of revolution upon the platform all but exploded, but the solid weight of Bingham was still there, and if I may hint at a phrase with which the reader is already familiar, he suggested that Sir Charles knew what he was about and should be let alone.

“Even if they did buy,” Repton went on seriously and argumentatively, “they could hardly buy at more than par. I’m the last man,” he continued rapidly “to jaw about public opinion or things of that sort. The real reason why they won’t buy is the Irish. But even if they did buy they could hardly give more than par. And what’s par?” he said with great disdain. “No, that cock won’t fight!... Mind you, I’m not saying you couldn’t have got the Government to buy a little time ago. I think you could. But you can’t now.”

“I don’t think there’s a single man on either front bench—” this was said meditatively and tapping off the fingers of one hand with the forefinger of the other—“who’s personally interested, and I don’t think there’s any direct connection since Cooke died between the Cabinet and any one who is—except me. No, that’s not the way out. What you’ve got to do, ladies and gentlemen, is to throw a sprat to catch a whale.”

“A sprat,” he meditatively repeated, “to catch a whale: a great Whale full o’ blubber! ... an’ how are you going to do that?”

“Now listen”—his tone had become very earnest and he was leaning forward, bent and fixed and holding them with his fine strong eyes, “listen, there are three steps. You’ve got first of all to show the public that you believe in the future of the Company; next you’ve got to decide upon a dodge to show that: something that’ll make every one think that you the shareholders do really believe in that future. What’s the third step? Why up goes the price—real price—money offered—then you can sell. That’s my opinion,” he concluded, clapping his hands together and laying them upon the table before him: and he let it sink in.

“Now you’ll notice,” he went on, “in the prospectus you have received, some talk of a railway. We’re asking money from you to build a railway. Now why are we doing that? Please follow me carefully.”

The hundreds of heads bent forward and the intelligences they contained were prepared to follow him carefully. He was a great man.

“We have asked you to build a railway,” he pronounced, leaving a little space of time between each word, “because a railway still catches on. I don’t know why, but it does. Mines don’t. You might discover ore all over the place and they wouldn’t go: I’ve got two men of my own, engineers, experts, who’ll discover ore anywhere; they’d discover tons before three o’clock this afternoon and you might swear your dying oath to them, but the public wouldn’t believe you. As for agriculture,—Piff! And as for climate, Boo! But railways still work.”

“Very well. You raise your capital for your railway. What that railway may be imagined to do is set out in full before you and I won’t go into it. But I will ask you especially to note the passage in which it is described as giving a strategical supremacy to the Empire. You know what the Empire is. You may know, some o’ you, what strategy is. Looks as if there were a fleecy general or two among you! But that’s as may be—just note the phrase. It’s safety! That’s what it is! No odds. No blighter to run any risk of having to fight any one anywhere! Grand!”... “I think also,” he mused, “something could be done with the tourist side ... there are falls and mountains and things ... but no matter: the point is the railway.”

He drank from a glass of water on the table, turned round angrily and said: “Good lord what water! It’s bad enough to have to drink water in public for a show, but it needn’t be tepid! If the place wasn’t so public I’d spit it out again!” Then facing the audience again: “However.... About that railway. First understand clearly, ladies and gentlemen, that railway is not going to be built! There is no intention of building it. There is no intention of surveying it.”

Two or three voices rose in protest at the back of the hall. Sir Charles leaned forward and put out his hand appealingly:—

“One moment, one moment pray! Hear me out! I don’t mean that no one will build it. That’s not our funeral. I mean that we won’t. The ‘Company’ may, whatever that means. But you and I—the people who have got into this hole—we won’t. It won’t be our money. Seize that! Get a hold of that! It’s the key to the whole business.”

Little gasps and one profound sigh, but no interruptions followed this explanation, and Sir Charles with perfect coolness continued:

“What we want is five shillings a share—only five shillings a share. Five shillings where most of you have already given a hundred and sixty! Five shillings a share ... four million shares ... that’s a million. And mind you, only a nominal million. We don’t want your two half-crowns; bless you no. All we want in cash is a shilling. For the rest, you’ll see in a moment. Well, there you are then, a shilling, a miserable shilling. Now just see what that shilling will do!”

“In the first place it’ll give publicity and plenty of it. Breath of public life, publicity! Breath o’ finance too! We’ll have that railway marked in a dotted line on the maps: all the maps: school maps: office maps. We’ll have leaders on it and speeches on it. And good hearty attacks on it. And th-e-n....” He lowered his voice to a very confidential wheedle,—“the price’ll begin to creep up—Oh ... o ... oh! the real price, my beloved fellow-shareholders, the price at which one can really sell, the price at which one can handle the stuff.”

He gave a great breath of satisfaction. “Now d’ye see? It’ll go to forty shillings right off, it ought to go to forty-five, it may go to sixty!... And then,” he said briskly, suddenly changing his tone, “then, my hearties, you blasted well sell out: you unload ... you dump ’em. Plenty more fools where your lot came from. I won’t advise,—sell out just when you see fit. Every man for himself, and every woman too,” he said, bowing politely to the two old ladies in the second row,—“and the devil take the hindmost. But you’ll all have something, you’ll none of you lose it all as it looked like last week. Most of you’ll lose on your first price: late comers least: a few o’ ye’ll make if you bought under two pounds. Anyhow I shall.... There! if that isn’t finance I don’t know what is!”

And with a large happy, final, satisfactory and conclusive smile, the Builder of Empire, to the astonishment of every one, looked at his watch, called upon his Creator as a witness to the lateness of the hour, and suddenly went out.

It would be delicious to describe what happened in the vast body of that hall when the Chief had left it: how the shareholders made a noise like angry bees swarming; how a curate who had done no man any harm was squashed against a wall and broke two ribs; how five or six excited and almost tearful men surrounded the reporters and fought for their notebooks; how Bingham continued to reiterate that Charles Repton knew what he was at; and how a certain quiet little man with a bronzed face and very humorous eyes, slunk out and got rid of his block of shares within the hour, to a young hearty Colonial gentleman who was wealthy and had come to London to learn the business ways of our City.[2]

But I must follow Sir Charles in his rapid drive to the House of Commons. I must mention his unconventional remark to the policeman to the effect that he hoped that old fool Pottle hadn’t come in yet; and his taking his place on the front bench just after prayers with a look so merry and free that it illumined the faces opposite like a sun.

The questions to which he had to reply came somewhat late on the paper, and he caused not a little scandal by suggesting in a low tone such answers to his colleagues for their questions as seemed to him at once humorous and apposite.

The aged Home Secretary especially afforded him fine sport, and when a question was asked with regard to the new Admiralty docks at Bosham, he went to the length of chucking a cocked-hat note to the principal contractor who sat solemnly upon the benches behind him, nodding cheerfully over his shoulder and whispering loudly: “It’s all up!”

All this boded ill for what might happen when his own turn came; and indeed the scene that followed was of a kind entirely novel in the long history of the House of Commons.

It was a simple question; Question 63. Not ten minutes of question-time were left when it was asked. It was put by a gentle little man who had put it down for the sake of a friend who lived on the South Coast, and it was simply to ask the right honourable Baronet, the Warden of the Court of Dowry, whether his attention had been called to the presence upon the Royal Sovereign shoals of a wreck which endangered navigation, and what he intended to do in the matter.

Charles Repton jumped up like a bird; he jovially and rapidly read the typewritten answer which his permanent officials had given him—to the effect that he had nothing to add to the reply given three years before with regard to the same wreck, which was then, they were careful to point out, far more dangerous than at the present day.

But when he had finished reading the official reply, he looked up genially at his interlocutor and said:

“We don’t want to interfere with that wreck: it’s full of gin!”

An angry fanatic hearing the word “gin” rose at once and put the supplementary question: “May I ask whether that gin was destined for the unfortunate natives of the Lagos Hinterland?”

“Yes,” said the Warden of the Court of Dowry politely, “Yes sir, you may: but they will never get it. However, several thousand tons of gin I am glad to say have gone out to the negroes of our colonies since the ship was lost, to the no small advantage,” he added, “of my friend Mr. Garey; whom, by the way,” he continued with conversational ease, “we all hope to see in this House shortly, for old Southwick who’s up against him hasn’t got a dog’s chance, and you probably know that we are forcing Pipps to resign. Bound to be an election!”

He sat down. It was a quarter to four and the House was saved. But though the decorum of that great assembly prevented one word from being uttered as to what had passed, the Lobbies were full of it, and when the first division was taken men who ordinarily filed past the Treasury bench avoided it, while from distant and dark corners where one cannot be observed, long and intent looks were darted at the happy Warden of the Court of Dowry.

He sat there gay and quite unconscious of the effect he had produced, passed with his Party into the Lobbies for the division, greeting with familiar joy men who appeared rather anxious to avoid his eye, and making, I regret to say, such unseemly jests upon the Party system as had never been heard within those walls before.

The young Prime Minister, though suffering so considerably from the left lung, was never at a loss where tact, and especially tact combined with rapid action, was necessary. A horrified servant called him from his room and described what was passing. He did not stop to ask why or how the thing had happened. He came in rapidly through the door behind the Speaker’s chair, and beckoned to Sir Charles Repton who was at that moment occupied in drawing a large caricature of the Leader of the Opposition, with his hands deep into the pocket of an amiable farmer-like gentleman in top-boots and whiskers, who made a presentable image of John Bull.

Charles Repton got up at once and went out to his Chief. “What d’you think of this?” he said, showing his picture.

The young Prime Minister smiled as death would smile. “It’s very good, it’s very good,” he said hurriedly. “Have it coloured ... colour it yourself. Oh, do what you like with it.... Come with me. Come into my room, do. No, I’ll tell you what, I want to speak to you. Let’s get out into the air.”

He walked his subordinate away rapidly arm in arm across Parliament Square towards St. James’s Park, talking about a thousand things and never giving Repton time for a word. Then he said suddenly: “What I really want to say to you, Repton, is ...” He abruptly broke off. “Is Lady Repton at home?”

“Yes,” said Repton a little puzzled, “or she will be by this time. I make her show me her plan for the afternoon at lunch, and she’s got to suit me, or there’s a row.”

“Well now,” said the Prime Minister, “will you do me a great favour?” He put his hand on Repton’s shoulder and looked candidly into his eyes.

“Certainly my dear fellow,” answered the Warden of the Court of Dowry in the utmost good humour. “After all my position depends upon you, and a good deal of my income depends upon my position. It isn’t likely I should put your back up, even if I didn’t like you, which is far from being the case, though I must say I don’t think you’re a man of very exceptional talent. I think you owe most of your position to birth.”

“Yes, yes,” said the Prime Minister hurriedly, “I understand. Now what I want you to do is this: jump into the first thing you see and go straight home. You will see why when you get there. It’s absolutely urgent. Will you?”

“Certainly,” said Repton more puzzled than ever. “All you politicians are such liars that I make a point of believing the exact opposite of what you say: but if you tell me it’s of any service to you, it certainly does me no harm.” And whistling gaily he walked off towards a cab that was meandering across the Parade.

When the Prime Minster had seen him well off he went as rapidly as dignity would allow into Downing Street, took the telephone from his secretary and in an agony of apprehension lest he should be too late, at last heard Lady Repton’s voice. He told her that her husband was the victim of a most distressing malady; she would understand it when she saw him. He implored her to save so valuable a man for the country by managing in some way or other to confine him to the house until he should be medically examined.

It was a great relief to the young fellow to have got this duty done. His fifty-four years seemed to weigh less upon him: for the ten minutes between leaving the House and seeing Repton off he had been on a grill: there was still ridicule to be faced, but he had a sentiment of having achieved his end and of having just saved as difficult a situation as ever the chief of a State had had to meet.

It was an anxious moment, but many moments are necessarily anxious in the life of a man who holds in his hands the destinies of Great Britain, and the young and popular Prime Minister had the stuff in him to stand worse scenes than that, but he was exhausted and he was slightly troubled. The full consequences of the dreadful affair had not yet shaped themselves in his mind.

He walked back to his room in the House of Commons, ruminating during those few steps upon the developments that might arise from Repton’s terrible accident, and beginning to plan how he should arrange matters with Demaine. It would want caution, for Demaine was slow to understand ... but then there was a corresponding advantage to that, for like all slow men, Dimmy could hold his tongue.... In fact he couldn’t help it.

The Prime Minister was pleased to think that he had that second string to his bow, and that opinion had been sufficiently prepared for the change. Repton would be certified of course, the sooner the better,—that would prevent any necessity for a peerage. Demaine’s taking the place would seem more natural, and those gadflies, the Moon and the Capon, would not fall into a fever about the appointment.... Perhaps after all the Repton business would be an advantage in the long run!

The more he thought of his choice of Demaine the more pleased he was, and he had almost persuaded himself that the appointment was due to some extreme cunning upon his own part, when, coming round from his room into the Lobbies, he casually asked a colleague where Demaine was at the moment.

The colleague didn’t know. “I have my back turned to the benches behind us you know,” he explained elaborately.

The Prime Minister cast upon him a look of contempt, and asked the doorkeeper whether he had seen Mr. Demaine.

“G. M. Demaine,” said the doorkeeper solemnly, running his finger down a list.

The Prime Minister was almost moved to reprove him, but dignity forbade.

“Not in the House!” said the man curtly, addressing as an equal the chief power in England; for his post was secure, the Prime Minister’s precarious.

“You mean not on the benches: I can see that for myself!” said the Prime Minister sharply.

“I mean he hasn’t passed this door, sir,” said the official with quiet dignity, and Dolly went off considerably nettled, and looked into the tea-room and the libraries, and even wasted a little time in going round by the smoking-room. The policemen in the central hall had not seen Demaine, nay, a constituent with an exceedingly long black moustache and fierce eyes had been waiting by appointment with Demaine for two hours, and Demaine had not been found. The Prime Minister condescended so much as to speak to this man, and the man, not knowing whom he might be addressing, told him plainly that “if Mr. Demaine interpreted his duties in this fashion, he couldn’t answer for his seat, that was all!”

The Prime Minister further condescended to go out of the House in the ordinary way, and the policeman who guarded the ordinary portal had not seen Mr. Demaine.

It was really very awkward and exasperating, though it was only a detail. He must see Demaine that afternoon: it was imperative. But it was also important that he should see him as soon as possible. He wanted to keep him out of the way till he was coached.

There is nothing in this happy English life of ours more soothing to the brain in moments of anxiety, than the perusal of any one of those great Organs of Opinion which are the characteristic of our people and the envy of Europe, and of these it must be admitted none stand on quite the same intellectual and moral plane as the best two or three of our London evening papers. One of these the Prime Minister had always found particularly soothing. He bought it of the newsman at the corner of Parliament Square and opened it as he walked along at leisure towards Downing Street.

There was one corner of this sheet which was always a recreation to Dolly in the few moments he could spare from the House: it was the corner in which prizes were offered for the best pun, on condition of course that nothing coarse or personally offensive should be sent in by the competitors. To this he had turned an indifferent eye, when for the second time that day he received a shock which was almost like a blow in the face....

There, in great letters, with a flamboyance surely unworthy of a paper that professed to support his own Party, was the headline:

“DISAPPEARANCE OF A MINISTER ELECT.”

And his forebodings did not deceive him.... It was ... it was ... the permanently unlucky Demaine!

He cursed the crass imbecility by which such a thing could have got into the papers at all. He strode to his house and to his room, crumpled the paper which he was still holding, unfolded it, and then read the news again. There were but a few lines of it: Demaine had disappeared, and the full detective power of London was attempting to solve the mystery of his disappearance.

What madness to let such things get out!

Why, twenty things might have happened! He might simply have stopped in the house of a friend and not bothered to tell his wife that he was not coming home; he might simply have fallen ill and have been taken to a hospital or to a hotel. What a piece of idiocy to put it into the Press at all!

Much as he hated the exercise, he rang to be put through to Demaine House, and heard from Sudie herself, whom he knew but distantly, that her fears had done all.

She had sat up for George till nearly five o’clock in the morning; underrating perhaps her husband’s talents, and notably his ability to find his way home, she thought it possible he had fallen a victim to an unscrupulous taxi driver or that any one of a thousand other fates might have befallen him.

With too little comprehension of the social forces that build up the society of the Mother Land, Sudie had communicated at once with Scotland Yard, and on learning that her husband had last been seen leaving the House of Commons and walking towards the river, she had taken the unpardonable step of sending messages to all the evening papers in the hope that such publicity would advance the solution of the mystery.

It was perfectly damnable! As though the cares of his office were not enough, the Prime Minister found himself upon this Tuesday afternoon with a doubtful and anxious division awaiting him in the evening, with one of his Ministers gone mad, and his successor the subject at the best of a vulgar mystery, and at the worst of a hopeless disappearance.