Dick Faversham was on his way to London. He was going there as the Member for Eastroyd, and he was somewhat excited. He was excited for several reasons. Naturally he was elated at being a Member of Parliament, and he looked forward with pleasant anticipation to his political life in the Metropolis, and to his experiences in the House of Commons. But that was not all. This was his first visit to London since he had experienced those strange happenings which we described some time ago. As the train rushed on through the night he became oblivious to the presence of his fellow-passengers in the recollection of the events which were a mystery to him then, even as they were a mystery now.

Especially did his mind revert to that wonderful experience in Staple Inn. He had heard a voice although he saw nothing, and that voice had meant a great deal to him. More than once he had wondered if he had done right in being silent about what had taken place afterwards. Ought he not to have gone to the police and told them what he had heard? But he had not been able to make up his mind to do this. Somehow everything had been associated with what had come to him in Staple Inn, and of that he could not speak. It would be sacrilege to do so. Besides, it might not have been necessary. From the fact that the traitors had left the house so suddenly, he concluded that the police were cognizant of their existence.

But his eyes had been opened. That was why, when Olga Petrovic visited him, he was unresponsive. And yet he was not sure.

Should he ever see this beautiful woman again, he wondered?

He was afraid of her even while he longed to see her. Even then he recalled the tones of her voice, and the look in her eyes as she had pleaded with him. He had felt himself yielding to her pleading, all the barriers of his being seemed to be breaking down before the power of her glorious womanhood.

Then there was the coming of Hugh Stanmore and his granddaughter. They were the last persons he had expected to see, and yet the sight of their names seemed to break the spell which Olga Petrovic had cast over him.

There seemed no reason why they should come, and their interview, considering the circumstances under which he had seen them last was of a very prosy nature. Hugh Stanmore had happened to meet with a man who was a Government official, and who had told him of one Richard Faversham who was one of a deputation to his department, and who had pleaded passionately for certain things which the working-classes desired. This led to his learning the name of his hotel, and to the visit which had followed.

Hugh Stanmore had scarcely referred to his life at Wendover, and seemed to be in ignorance of Tony Riggleton's whereabouts. Dick wondered at this after the interview, and reproached himself with not asking many questions. At the time, however, he seemed to be indifferent.

To Beatrice he spoke only a few words. She appeared to be shy and diffident. If the truth must be told, she seemed ill at ease, and not at all pleased that her grandfather had brought her there. She was far less a child than when he had seen her at Wendover, and he had reflected that she was neither so interesting nor so good-looking as she had been two or three years before. Still, he was glad to see her, and he remembered the pleasant smile she had given him when she had left the room. His conversation with Hugh Stanmore had been almost entirely about his life at Eastroyd, and the conditions which obtained there.

He realised, too, that a subtle change had come over his opinions on his return to Eastroyd. Not that he had less interest in the class whose cause he had espoused; but he knew that he had been led to take larger views.

That was why some discontent had been felt among his most ardent supporters. Even those who had worked hardest for him during the election felt it incumbent upon them to raise a note of warning as they accompanied him to the station that night.

"It's all very well, Dick, lad," said one advanced Socialist, "but we mun make a bold front. I don't hold with Bolshevism, or owt of that sort; but the Capitalist is the enemy of the working man, and we mun put those money-bags in their right place."

It was a cold, dark, wintry morning when he arrived in London. The station and the streets were almost empty, the vehicles were few, and he felt cold and lonely. He had made no arrangements for his stay in the Metropolis, but he felt sure that the manager of the hotel where he had previously made his home would find him temporary accommodation. As it was impossible to get a taxi, he left his luggage at the station, and determined to walk. He knew the way well, and as the distance was only about a mile, he started with comparative cheerfulness.

As I have said, the streets were well-nigh deserted, and not a single soul passed him as he made his way up Euston Road. Nevertheless he had the feeling that he was being followed. More than once he looked around, but could see no one. Several times, too, he felt sure he heard following footsteps, but when he stopped there was silence.

When he turned at St. Pancras Church he looked up and down the street, but nothing suspicious met his gaze. A milkman's cart, a drayman's waggon, and that was all. The street lamps threw a sickly light on the cold wet road, and the houses were dark. London looked asleep.

For some time after he had passed St. Pancras Church he heard nothing; but, as he neared Woburn Square, he again heard footsteps. It seemed to him, too, that he was surrounded by dark influences. Something sinister and evil seemed to be surrounding him. He was not afraid, and his nerves were steady, but his brain was filled with strange fancies.

Almost unconsciously his mind reverted to Count Romanoff. He had seen him only once since he had left Wendover Park, and the man was still an enigma to him. He had a thousand times reflected on the strange happening in the library there, but although he felt he had been saved from something terrible, he had not definitely associated the Count with anything supernatural. For Dick was not cast in a superstitious mould.

The footsteps drew nearer, and again he looked around. Was it a fact, or was it fancy that he saw a dark form which hurriedly passed from his sight?

He was aware a few seconds later that he was walking more rapidly, and that something like fear was in his heart.

"Listen."

He heard the word plainly, and stopped. All was silent here. He saw that he was in one of the several squares which exist in the neighbourhood, but he was not sure which. He did not think it was Woburn Square, but it might be Taviton Square. He was not intimately acquainted with that part of London.

"Yes, what is it? Who are you?"

He spoke aloud, spoke almost unconsciously, but there were no answering words. He was the only person there. He moved to a lamp and looked at his watch; he had a vague idea that he wanted to know the time. The watch pointed to half-past one. Evidently he had forgotten to wind it, for he knew his train was due to arrive something after three, and that it was late.

He was about to start again when he thought he heard the words:

"Go to Wendover."

But there was nothing distinct. No voice reached him, and no one was in sight. At that moment the wind wailed across the open space, and moaned as it passed through the leafless branches of the trees. The wind seemed to formulate the same words.

"Go to Wendover."

"Of course it's all fancy," he reflected. "I expect my nerves are playing me tricks. I never knew I had any nerves; but I've been through an exciting time. I've been making speeches, meeting committees, and replying to deputations for the last fortnight, and I expect I'm about done up. After all, fighting an election is no make-believe."

A shiver passed through him. To say the least of it, even although it might be pure fancy, there was something uncanny about it all, and he could not help reflecting on his past experience.

He did not move, but stood like one spellbound, listening to the wind as it soughed its way through the shrubs and trees which grew in the centre of the Square.

"Who are you?" he asked again. "What do you want?"

He was sure there was a voice this time. It rose above the wailing wind, but he could see no one.

"You are in danger—great danger!"

"What danger? Who are you?"

"'Watch and pray, that ye enter not into temptation.'"

He recognised the words. They were spoken by One Whose Name he always held in reverence, spoken to His disciples in a far back age, before the knowledge of science and critical investigation had emerged from its swaddling clothes. But they were spoken in a woman's voice, spoken in almost wailing accents.

His whole being was filled with a great awe. The voice, the words coming to him, at such a time and in such a way, filled him with a great wonder, solemnised him to the centre of his being.

"If it were not a woman's voice, I might think it was He Himself who spoke," he said in a hoarse whisper.

Then he thought of the footsteps, thought of the ominous, sinister influences which had surrounded him a few minutes before.

"Lord, Lord Jesus Christ, help me!"

He said the words involuntarily. They had passed his lips before he knew he had spoken.

Was there any answer to his prayer? He only knew that he did not feel any fear, that a great peace came into his heart. He felt as he had never felt before, that God was a great reality. Perhaps that was why he was no longer lonely. There in the heart of the greatest city of the world, there in the darkness of a winter night, he was filled with a kind of consciousness that God was, that God cared, that he was not an orphan for whom no one cared, but a child of the Universal Father.

He looked up and saw the clouds swept across the sky. Here and there was a break through which a star shone. Eyes of heaven, they seemed to him. Yes, the spirit world was very near to him. Perhaps, perhaps—who knew?—there were messengers of the Unseen all around him.

Where had he heard those words? Ah yes, was it not Elizabeth Barrett Browning who wrote them, wrote them while in Italy, where she sojourned with her husband, the greatest poet of his time?

Again he looked around him, but nothing could be seen by his natural eyes. The houses, the trees, the gardens all lay wrapped in the gloom of the cold and darkness of that wintry morning, there in the heart of London. All the same it seemed that something had been born within him, something which he could not define, and again he seemed to hear, as he had heard years before, the glorious words which turned to naught the ribald and trifling scepticism of men:

"The Eternal God is thy Refuge, and underneath are the Everlasting Arms."

The sublimity of the message appealed to him. Surely no greater words were ever spoken. They peopled the dark wintry heavens with angels, they made everything possible.

"Lord, tell me what to do."

The prayer came naturally to his lips. It seemed to him that there was nothing else for him to say. But there were no answering words. All was silent, save for the soughing of the wind across the square. And yet I am wrong. He did hear words; they might be born of his own consciousness, and have no objective reality whatever, but again the wind seemed to speak to him.

"Go to Wendover."

Why should he go to Wendover? He had no right to be there, and from the rumours that he had heard, Tony Riggleton had turned the old house into a scene of drunken and sensual orgies. But in answer to his question the wailing wind seemed to reiterate, as if in a kind of dreary monotony, the same words, "Go to Wendover, go to Wendover."

Then suddenly everything became mundane.

"Good-night, or good morning rather."

It was a policeman who spoke, and who looked rather suspiciously at the lonely looking young man.

"Good morning," replied Dick; "it's not long to daylight is it?"

"Another hour or two yet. Lost your way?"

"I've come from King's Cross. I travelled by the midnight train, and there were no conveyances to be got."

"Ah, petrol's a bit scarce yet; but I hear we shall have more soon. Anywhere you want to get?"

"Yes, I'm going to Jones' Hotel."

"That's close to the British Museum; and only a few minutes away. I suppose your room's booked all right. The hotels are very crowded in London just now."

"That'll be all right. Good morning, and thank you!"

"That's all right, sir. Go to the end of the square, turn to the right, then take the second street to the left and you are there."

A few minutes later Dick was at the hotel. The night porter knew him well, and showed him into the smoke-room, where there was a good fire, and comfortable arm-chairs.

"You'll be all right here till breakfast, sir, won't you? After that you can see the manager."

Five minutes later Dick was asleep.

A few hours later he met some of his political confrÈres, two of whom begged him to lodge with them.

It was not much of a place they assured him, but the best their money would run to. "Four hundred a year's very little in London, and that you'll find out before long," one of them assured him.

"Every penny has to be looked after, and by living two or three together we can do things cheaper."

After seeing their lodgings, however, Dick determined to look around for himself. He did not relish the idea of sharing apartments with others. He wanted privacy, and he felt, although, like himself, these men were "Labour Members," that he had little in common with them.

"I thought of trying to get a small, cheap flat," he said.

"Not to be thought of with our pay," was the laughing response. "Of course you being a bachelor may have saved up a bit, or it may be that you think you'll be able to make a few pounds by journalism."

"Some do it, don't they?" he asked.

"They all want to do it, that's why there's so little chance. But I hear you are a bit of a swell, been to a public school and all that kind of thing, so you may have friends at court. Done anything that way?"

Dick shook his head. "Never," he replied; "but no one knows what he can do till he tries."

After considerable difficulty Dick happened upon a service flat which, although it cost more than he had calculated upon, was so convenient, and appealed to him so strongly, that he took it there and then.

Indeed he felt a pleasant sense of proprietorship, as he sat alone in his new home that night. The room was very small, but it was cosy. A cheerful fire burnt in the grate, and the reading-lamp threw a grateful light upon the paper he held in his hand.

"I must get a writing-desk and some book-cases, and I shall be as right as rain," he reflected. "This is princely as a sitting-room, and although the bedroom is only a box, it's quite big enough for me."

He closed his eyes with lazy contentment, and then began to dream of his future. Yes, ambition was still strong within him, and the longing to make a material, yes, an international, reputation was never so insistent as now. He wondered if he could do it, wondered whether being a Labour Member would ever lead to anything.

"A voting machine at four hundred a year."

He started up as though something had strung him. He remembered who had said those words to him, remembered how they had wounded him at the time they were spoken. Was that all he was after his hopes and dreams? He had been a big man at Eastroyd. People had stopped in the streets to point him out; but in London he was nobody.

"A voting machine at four hundred a year!"

Yes, but he would be more. He had proved that he had brains, and that he could appeal to the multitude. He had his feet on the ladder now, and——

His mind suddenly switched off. He was no longer in his newly acquired flat, he was walking from King's Cross to Jones' Hotel, he was passing through a lonely square.

"Go to Wendover."

How the words haunted him. Every time the wind blew he had heard them, and——

He started to his feet. "Well, why not? I have nothing to do to-morrow, and I can get there in a couple of hours."

The next morning he eagerly made his way to Victoria Station.