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The Project Gutenberg eBook ofNobody's Man

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Title: Nobody's Man

Author: E. Phillips Oppenheim

Release date: December 19, 2005 [eBook #17356]
Most recently updated: December 13, 2020

Language: English

Credits: E-text prepared by MRK

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK NOBODY'S MAN ***

E-text prepared by MRK

NOBODY'S MAN

by

E. PHILLIPS OPPENHEIM

1921

NOBODY'S MAN

CHAPTER I

Andrew Tallente stepped out of the quaint little train on to theflower-bedecked platform of this Devonshire hamlet amongst the hills, toreceive a surprise so immeasurable that for a moment he could do nothingbut gaze silently at the tall, ungainly figure whose unpleasant smilebetrayed the fact that this meeting was not altogether accidental so faras he was concerned.

"Miller!" he exclaimed, a little aimlessly.

"Why not?" was the almost challenging reply. "You are not the onlygreat statesman who needs to step off the treadmill now and then."

There was a certain quiet contempt in Tallente's uplifted eyebrows. Thecontrast between the two men, momentarily isolated on the littleplatform, was striking and extreme. Tallente had the bearing, the voiceand the manner which were his by heritage, education and naturalculture. Miller, who was the son of a postman in a small Scotch town,an exhibitioner so far as regards his education, and a mimic wheresocial gifts were concerned, had all the aggressive bumptiousness of thesuccessful man who has wit enough to perceive his shortcomings. In hisill-chosen tourist clothes, untidy collar and badly arranged tie, hepresented a contrast to his companion of which he seemed, in a way,bitterly conscious.

"You are staying near here?" Tallente enquired civilly.

"Over near Lynton. Dartrey has a cottage there. I came downyesterday."

"Surely you were in Hellesfield the day before yesterday?"

Miller smiled ill-naturedly.

"I was," he admitted, "and I flatter myself that I was able to make thespeech which settled your chances in that direction."

Tallente permitted a slight note of scorn to creep into his tone.

"It was not your eloquence," he said, "or your arguments, which broughtfailure upon me. It was partly your lies and partly your tactics."

An unwholesome flush rose in the other's face.

"Lies?" he repeated, a little truculently.

Tallente looked him up and down. The station master was approachingnow, the whistle had blown, their conversation was at an end.

"I said lies," Tallente observed, "most advisedly." The train wasalready on the move, and the departing passenger was compelled to stephurriedly into a carriage. Tallente, waited upon by the obsequiousstation master, strolled across the line to where his car was waiting.It was not until his arrival there that he realised that Miller hadoffered him no explanation as to his presence on the platform of thistiny wayside station.

"Did you notice the person with whom I was talking?" he asked thestation master.

"A tall, thin gentleman in knickerbockers? Yes, sir," the man replied.

"Part of your description is correct," Tallente remarked drily. "Do youknow what he was doing here?"

"Been down to your house, I believe, sir. He arrived by the early trainthis morning and asked the way to the Manor."

"To my house?" Tallente repeated incredulously.

"It was the Manor he asked for, sir," the station master assured hisquestioner. "Begging your pardon, sir, is it true that he was Miller,the Socialist M.P.?"

"True enough," was the brief reply. "What of it?"

The man coughed as he deposited the dispatch box which he had beencarrying on the seat of the waiting car.

"They think a lot of him down in these parts, sir," he observed, alittle apologetically.

Tallente made no answer to the station master's last speech and merelywaved his hand a little mechanically as the car drove off. His mind wasalready busy with the problem suggested by Miller's appearance in theseparts. For the first few minutes of his drive he was back again in theturmoil which he had left. Then with a little shrug of the shoulders heabandoned this new enigma. Its solution must be close at hand.

Arrived at the edge of the dusty, white strip of road along which he hadtravelled over the moors from the station, Tallente leaned forward andwatched the unfolding panorama below with a little start of surprise.He had passed through acres of yellowing gorse, of purple heather andmossy turf, fragrant with the aromatic perfume of sun-baked herbiage.In the distance, the moorland reared itself into strange promontories,out-flung to the sea. On his right, a little farm, with its cluster ofout-buildings, nestled in the bosom of the hills. On either side, thefields still stretched upward like patchwork to a clear sky, but below,down into the hollow, blotting out all that might lie beneath, was acurious sea of rolling white mist, soft and fleecy yet impenetrable.Tallente, who had seen very little of this newly chosen country home ofhis, had the feeling, as the car crept slowly downward, of one about toplunge into a new life, to penetrate into an unknown world. A man ofextraordinarily sensitive perceptions, leading him often outside thepolitical world in which he fought the battle of life, he was consciousof a curious and grim premonition as the car, crawling down theprecipitous hillside, approached and was enveloped in the grey shroud.The world which a few moments before had seemed so wonderful, thesunlight, the distant view of the sea, the perfumes of flowers andshrubs, had all gone. The car was crawling along a rough and stonyroad, between hedges dripping with moisture and trees dimly seen likespectres. At last, about three-quarters of the way down to the sea,after an abrupt turn, they entered a winding avenue and emerged on to aterrace. The chauffeur, who had felt the strain of the drive, ran alittle past the front door and pulled up in front of an uncurtainedwindow. Tallente glanced in, dazzled a little at first by theunexpected lamplight. Then he understood the premonition which had satshivering in his heart during the long descent.

The mist, which had hung like a spectral curtain over the little demesneof Martinhoe Manor, had almost entirely disappeared when, at a fewminutes before eight, with all traces of his long journey obliterated,Andrew Tallente stepped out on to the stone-flagged terrace and lookedout across the little bay below. The top of the red sandstone cliffopposite was still wreathed with mists, but the sunlight lay upon thetennis lawn, the flower gardens below, and the rocks almost covered bythe full, swelling tide. Tall, and looking slimmer than ever in hisplain dinner garb, there were some indications of an hour of strange andunexpected suffering in the tired face of the man who gazed out insomewhat dazed fashion at the little panorama which he had been lookingforward so eagerly to seeing again. Throughout the long journey downfrom town, he had felt an unusual and almost boyish enthusiasm for hiscoming holiday. He had thought of his tennis racquet and fishing rods,wondered about his golf clubs and his guns. Even the unexpectedencounter with Miller had done little more than leave an unpleasanttaste in his mouth. And then, on his way down from "up over," as thenatives called that little strip of moorland overhead, he had vanishedinto the mist and had come out into another world.

"Andrew! So you are out here? Why did you not come to my room? Surelyyour train was very punctual?"

Tallente remained for a moment tense and motionless. Then he turnedaround. The woman who stood upon the threshold of the house, framedwith a little cascade of drooping roses, sought for his eyes almosthungrily. He realised how she must be feeling. A dormant vein ofcynicism parted his lips as he held her fingers for a moment. His toneand his manner were quite natural.

"We were, I believe, unusually punctual," he admitted. "What anextraordinary mist! Up over there was no sign of it at all."

She shivered. Her eyes were still watching his face, seeking for ananswer to her unasked question. Blue eyes they were, which had beenbeautiful in their day, a little hard and anxious now. She wore a whitedress, simple with the simplicity of supreme and expensive art. A ropeof pearls was her only ornament. Her hair was somewhat elaboratelycoiffured, there was a touch of rouge upon her cheeks, and theunscreened evening sunlight was scarcely kind to her rather wan featuresand carefully arranged complexion. She still had her claims to beauty,however. Tallente admitted that to himself as he stood there appraisingher, with a strange and almost impersonal regard,—his wife of thirteenyears. She was beautiful, notwithstanding the strained look of anxietywhich at that moment disfigured her face, the lurking fear which madeher voice sound artificial, the nervousness which every moment madefresh demands upon her self-restraint.

"It came up from the sea," she said. "One moment Tony and I weresitting out under the trees to keep away from the sun, and the next wewere driven shivering indoors; It was just like running into a fog bankin the middle of the Atlantic on a hot summer's day."

"I found the difference in temperature amazing," he observed. "I, too,dropped from the sunshine into a strange chill."

She tried to get rid of the subject.

"So you lost your seat," she said. "I am very sorry. Tell me how ithappened?"

He shrugged his shoulders.

"The Democratic Party made up their mind, for some reason or other, thatI shouldn't sit. The Labour Party generally were not thinking ofrunning a candidate. I was to have been returned unopposed, inacknowledgment of my work on the Nationalisation Bill. The Democrats,however, ratted. They put up a man at the last moment, and—well, youknow the result—I lost."

"I don't understand English politics," she confessed, "but I thought youwere almost a Labour man yourself."

"I am practically," he replied. "I don't know, even now, what made themoppose me."

"What about the future?"

"My plans are not wholly made."

For the first time, an old and passionate ambition prevailed against thethrall of the moment.

"One of the papers this morning," she said eagerly, "suggested that youmight be offered a peerage."

"I saw it," he acknowledged. "It was in the Sun. I was onceunfortunate enough to be on the committee of a club which blackballedthe editor."

Her mouth hardened a little.

"But you haven't forgotten your promise?"

"'Bargain' shall we call it?" he replied. "No, I have not forgotten."

"Tony says you could have a peerage whenever you liked."

"Then I suppose it must be so. Just at present I am not prepared towrite 'finis' to my political career."

The butler announced dinner. Tallente offered his arm and they passedthrough the homely little hall into the dining room beyond. Stella cameto a sudden standstill as they crossed the threshold.

"Why is the table laid for two only?" she demanded. "Mr. Palliser ishere."

"I was obliged to send Tony away—on important business," Tallenteintervened. "He left about an hour ago."

Once more the terror was upon her. The fingers which gripped her napkintrembled. Her eyes, filled with fierce enquiry, were fixed upon herhusband's as he took his place in leisurely fashion and glanced at themenu.

"Obliged to send Tony away?" she repeated. "I don't understand. Hetold me that he had several days' work here with you."

"Something intervened," he murmured.

"Why didn't you wire?" she faltered, almost under her breath. "Hecouldn't have had any time to get ready."

Andrew Tallente looked at his wife across the bowl of floating flowers.

"Ah!" he exclaimed. "I didn't think of that. But in any case I did notmake up my mind until I arrived that it was necessary for him to go."

There was silence for a time, an unsatisfactory and in some respects anunnatural silence. Tallente trifled with hishors d'oeuvres and wasinquisitive about the sauce with which his fish was flavoured. Stellasent away her plate untouched, but drank two glasses of champagne. Thelight came back to her eyes, she found courage again. After all, shewas independent of this man, independent even of his name. She lookedacross the table at him appraisingly. He was still sufficientlygood-looking, lithe of frame and muscular, with features well-cutalthough a little irregular in outline. Time, however, and anxious workwere beginning to leave their marks. His hair was grey at the sides,there were deep lines in his face, he seemed to her fancy to haveshrunken a little during the last few years. He had still the languid,high-bred voice which she had always admired so munch, the same coolnessof manner and quiet dignity. He was a personable man, but after all hewas a failure. His career, so far as she could judge it, was at an end.She was a fool to imagine, even for a moment, that her whole future layin his keeping.

"Have you any plans?" she asked him presently. "Another constituency?"

He smiled a little wearily. For once he spoke quite naturally.

"The only plan I have formulated at present is to rest for a time," headmitted.

She drank another glass of champagne and felt almost confident. Shetold him the small events of the sparsely populated neighbourhood, spokeof the lack of water in the trout stream, the improvement in the golflinks, the pheasants which a near-by landowner was turning down. Theywere comparative newcomers and had seen as yet little of theirneighbours.

"I was told," she concluded, "that the great lady of the neighbourhoodwas to have called upon me this afternoon. I waited in but she didn'tcome."

"And who is that?" he enquired.

"Lady Jane Partington of Woolhanger—a daughter of the Duke ofBarminster. Woolhanger was left to her by an old aunt, and they saythat she never leaves the place."

"An elderly lady?" he asked, merely with an intent of prolonging aharmless subject of conversation.

"On the contrary, quite young," his wife replied. "She seems to be asort of bachelor-spinster, who lives out in that lonely place without achaperon and rules the neighborhood. You ought to make friends withher, Andrew. They say that she is half a Socialist.—By the by, howlong are we going to stay down here?"

"We will discuss that presently," he answered.

The service of dinner came to its appointed end. Tallente drank oneglass of port alone. Then he rose, left the room by the French windows,passed along the terrace and looked in at the drawing-room, where Stellawas lingering over her coffee.

"Will you walk with me as far as the lookout?" he invited. "Your maidcan bring you a cloak if you are likely to be cold."

She responded a little ungraciously, but appeared a few minutes later, afilmy shawl of lace covering her bare shoulders. She walked by his sideto the end of the terrace, along the curving walk through theplantation, and by the sea wall to the flagged space where some seatsand a table had been fixed. Four hundred feet below, the sea wasbeating against jagged rocks. The moon was late and it was almost dark.She leaned over and he stood by her side.

"Stella," he said, "you asked me at dinner when we were leaving here.
You are leaving to-morrow morning by the twelve-thirty train."

"What do you mean?" she demanded, with a sudden sinking of the heart.

"Please do not ask," he replied. "You know and I know. It is not mywish to make public the story of our—disagreement."

She was silent for several moments, looking over into the black gulfbelow, watching the swirl of the sea, listening to its dull boomingagainst the distant rocks, the shriek of the backward-dragged pebbles.An owl flew out from some secret place in the cliffs and wheeled acrossthe bay. She drew her shawl around her with a little shiver.

"So this is the end," she answered.

"No doubt, in my way," he reflected, "I have been as great adisappointment to you as you to me. You brought me your great wealth,believing that I could use it towards securing just what you desired inthe way of social position. Perhaps that might have come but for thewar. Now I have become rather a failure."

"There was no necessity for you ever to have gone soldiering," shereminded him a little hardly.

"As you say," he acquiesced. "Still, I went and I do not regret it. Imight even remind you that I met with some success."

"Pooh!" she scoffed. "What is the use of a few military distinctions?What are an M.C. and a D.S.O. and a few French and Belgian orders goingto do for me? You know I want other things. They told me when Imarried you," she went on, warming with her own sense of injury, "thatyou were certain to be Prime Minister. They told me that the CoalitionParty couldn't do without you, that you were the only effective linkbetween them and Labour. You had only to play your cards properly andyou could have pushed out Horlock whenever you liked. And now see whata mess you have made of things! You have built up Horlock's party forhim, he offers you an insignificant post in the Cabinet, and you can'teven win your seat in Parliament."

"Your epitome of my later political career has its weak points, but Idare say, from your point of view, you have every reason for complaint,"he observed. "Since I have failed to procure for you the position youdesire, our parting will have a perfectly natural appearance. Yourfortune is unimpaired—you cannot say that I have been extravagant—andI assure you that I shall not regret my return to poverty."

"But you won't be able to live," she said bluntly. "You haven't anyincome at all."

"Believe me," he answered quietly, "you exaggerate my poverty. In anycase, it is not your concern."

"You wouldn't—"

She paused. She was a woman of not very keen perceptions, but sherealised that if she were to proceed with the offer which was halfframed in her mind, the man by her side, with his, to her outlook,distorted sense of honour, would become her enemy. She shrugged hershoulders, and turning towards him, held out her hand.

"It is the end, then," she said. "Well, Andrew, I did my best accordingto my lights, and I failed. Will you shake hands?"

He shook his head.

"I cannot, Stella. Let us agree to part here. We know all there is tobe known of one another, and we shall be able to say good-by withoutregret."

She drifted slowly away from him. He watched her figure pass in and outamong the trees. She was unashamed, perhaps relieved,—probably, hereflected, as he watched her enter the house, already making her plansfor a more successful future. He turned away and looked downwards. Thedarkness seemed, if possible, to have become a little more intense, themoaning of the sea more insistent. Little showers of white sprayenlaced the sombre rocks. The owl came back from his mysteriousjourney, hovered for a moment over the cliff and entered his secrethome. Behind him, the lights in the house went out, one by one.Suddenly he felt a grip upon his shoulder, a hot breath upon his cheek.It was Stella, returned dishevelled, her lace scarf streaming behind,her eyes lit with horror. "Andrew!" she cried. "It came over me—justas I entered the house! What have you done with Anthony?"

CHAPTER II

Tallente's first impressions of Jane Partington were that an exceedinglyattractive but somewhat imperious young woman had surprised him in amost undignified position. She had come cantering down the drive on ahorse which, by comparison with the Exmoor ponies which every one rodein those parts, had seemed gigantic, and, finding a difficulty in makingher presence known, had motioned to him with her whip. He climbed downfrom the steps where he had been busy fastening up some roses, removed anail from his mouth and came towards her.

"How is it that I can make no one hear?" she asked. "Do you know if
Mrs. Tallente is at home?"

Tallente was in no hurry to reply. He was busy taking in a variety ofpleasant impressions. Notwithstanding the severely cut riding habit andthe hard little hat, he decided that he had never looked into a moreattractively feminine face. For some occult reason, unconnected, he wassure, with the use of any skin food or face cream, this young woman whohad the reputation of living out of doors, winter and summer, had acomplexion which, notwithstanding its faint shade of tan, would havepassed muster for delicacy and clearness in any Mayfair drawing-room.Her eyes were soft and brown, her hair a darker shade of the samecolour. Her mouth, for all its firmness, was soft and pleasantlycurved. Her tone, though a trifle imperative, was kindly, gracious andfull of musical quality. Her figure was moderately slim, butindistinguishable at that moment under her long coat. She possessed acurious air of physical well-being, the well-being of a woman who hasfound and is enjoying what she seeks in life.

"Won't you tell me why I can make no one hear?" she repeated, stillgood-naturedly but frowning slightly at his silence.

"Mrs. Tallente is in London," he announced. "She has taken most of theestablishment with her."

The visitor fumbled in her side pocket and produced a diminutive ivorycase. She withdrew a card and handed it to Tallente, with a glance athis gloved hands.

"Will you give this to the butler?" she begged. "Tell him to tell hismistress that I was sorry not to find her at home."

"The butler," Tallente explained, "has gone for the milk. He shall havethe card immediately on his return."

She looked at him for a moment and then smiled.

"Do forgive me," she said. "I believe you are Mr. Tallente?"

He drew off his gloves and shook hands.

"How did you guess that?" he asked.

"From the illustrated papers, of course," she answered. "I have come tothe conclusion that you must be a very vain man, I have seen so manypictures of you lately."

"A matter of snapshots," he replied, "for which, as a rule, the victimis not responsible. You should abjure such a journalistic vice aspicture papers."

"Why?" she laughed. "They lead to such pleasant surprises. I had beenled to believe, for instance, by studying the Daily Mirror, that youwere quite an elderly person with a squint."

"I am becoming self-conscious," he confessed. "Won't you come in?There is a boy somewhere about the premises who can look after yourhorse, and I shall be able to give you some tea as soon as Robert getsback with the milk."

He cooeed to the boy, who came up from one of the lower shelves ofgarden, and she followed him into the hall. He looked around him for amoment in some perplexity.

"I wonder whether you would mind coming into my study?" he suggested.
"I am here quite alone for the present, and it is the only room I use."

She followed him down a long passage into a small apartment at theextreme end of the house.

"You are like me," she said. "I keep most of my rooms shut up and livein my den. A lonely person needs so much atmosphere."

"Rather a pigsty, isn't it?" he remarked, sweeping a heap of books froma chair. "I am without a secretary just now—in fact," he went on, witha little burst of confidence engendered by her friendly attitude, "weare in a mess altogether."

She laughed softly, leaning back amongst the cushions of the chair andlooking around the room, her kindly eyes filled with interest.

"It is a most characteristic mess," she declared. "I am sure aninterviewer would give anything for this glimpse into your tastes andhabits. Golf clubs, all cleaned up and ready for action; trout rod,newly-waxed at the joints—you must try my stream, there is no water inyours; tennis racquets in a very excellent press—I wonder whetheryou're too good for a single with me some day? Typewriter—ratherdusty. I don't believe that you can use it."

"I can't," he admitted. "I have been writing my letters by hand for thelast two days."

She sighed.

"Men are helpless creatures! Fancy a great politician unable to writehis own letters! What has become of your secretary?"

Tallente threw some books to the floor and seated himself in the vacanteasy-chair.

"I shall begin to think," he said, a little querulously, "that you don'tread the newspapers. My secretary, according to that portion of thePress which guarantees to provide full value for the smallest coppercoin, has 'disappeared'."

"Really?" she exclaimed. "He or she?"

"He—the Honourable Anthony Palliser by name, son of Stobart Palliser,who was at Eton with me."

She nodded.

"I expect I know his mother. What exactly do you mean by'disappeared'?"

Tallente was looking out of the window. A slight hardness had creptinto his tone and manner. He had the air of one reciting a story.

"The young man and I differed last Tuesday night," he said. "In thelanguage of the novelists, he walked out into the night and disappeared.Only an hour before dinner, too. Nothing has been heard of him since."

"What a fatuous thing to do!" she remarked. "Shall you have to getanother secretary?"

"Presently," he assented. "Just for the moment I am rather enjoyingdoing nothing."

She leaned back amongst the cushions of her chair and looked across athim with interest, an interest which presently drifted into sympathy.Even the lightness of his tone could not mask the inwritten weariness ofthe man, the tired droop of the mouth, and the lacklustre eyes.

"Do you know," she said, "I have never been more intrigued than when I
heard you were really coming down here. Last summer I was in
Scotland—in fact I have been away every time the Manor has been open.
I am so anxious to know whether you like this part of the world."

"I like it so much," he replied, "that I feel like settling here for therest of my life."

She shook her head.

"You will never be able to do that," she said, "at least not for manyyears. The country will need so much of your time. But it isdelightful to think that you may come here for your holidays."

"If you read the newspapers," he remarked, a little grimly, "you mightnot be so sure that the country is clamouring for my services."

She waved away his speech with a little gesture of contempt.

"Rubbish! Your defeat at Hellesfield was a matter of political jobbery.Any one could see through that. Horlock ought never to have sent youthere. He ought to have found you a perfectly safe seat, and of coursehe will have to do it."

He shook his head.

"I am not so sure. Horlock resents my defeat almost as though it were apersonal matter. Besides, it is an age of young men, Lady Jane."

"Young men!" she scoffed. "But you are young."

"Am I?" he answered, a little sadly. "I am not feeling it just now.Besides, there is something wrong about my enthusiasms. They arebecoming altogether too pastoral. I am rather thinking of taking up thecultivation of roses and of making a terraced garden down to the sea.Do you know anything about gardening, Lady Jane?"

"Of course I do," she answered, a little impatiently. "A very excellenthobby it is for women and dreamers and elderly men. There is plenty oftime for you to take up such a pursuit when you have finished yourwork."

"Fifteen thousand intelligent voters have just done their best to tellme that it is already finished," he sighed.

She made a little grimace.

"Am I going to be disappointed in you, I wonder?" she asked. "I don'tthink so. You surely wouldn't let a little affair like one electiondrive you out of public life? It was so obvious that you were made thevictim for Horlock's growing unpopularity in the country. Haven't yourealised that yourself—or perhaps you don't care to talk about thesethings to an ignoramus such as I am?"

"Please don't believe that," he begged hastily. "I think yours isreally the common-sense view of the matter. Only," he went on, "I havealways represented, amongst the coalitionists, the moderate Socialist,the views of those men who recognise the power and force of the comingdemocracy, and desire to have legislation attuned to it. Yet it was theDemocratic vote which upset me at Hellesfield."

"That was entirely a matter of faction," she persisted. "That horribleperson Miller was sent down there, for some reason or other, to maketrouble. I believe if the election had been delayed another week, andyou had been able to make two more speeches like you did at the CornExchange, you would have got in."

He looked at her in some surprise.

"That is exactly what I thought myself," he agreed. "How on earth doyou come to know all these things?"

"I take an interest in your career," she said, smiling at him, "and Ihate to see you so dejected without cause."

He felt a little thrill at her words. A queer new sense ofcompanionship stirred in his pulses. The bitterness of his suppresseddisappointment was suddenly soothed. There was something of theexcitement of the discoverer, too, in these new sensations. It seemedto him that he was finding something which had been choked out of hislife and which was yet a real and natural part of it.

"You will make an awful nuisance of me if you don't mind," he warnedher. "If you encourage me like this, you will develop the most juvenileof all failings—you will make me want to talk about myself. I ambeginning to feel terribly egotistical already."

She leaned a little towards him. Her mouth was soft with sweet andfeminine tenderness, her eyes warm with kindness.

"That is just what I hoped I might succeed in doing," she declared. "Ihave been interested in your career ever since I had the faintest ideaof what politics meant. You could not give me a greater happiness thanto talk to me—about yourself."

CHAPTER III

Very soon tea was brought in. The homely service of the meal, andRobert's plain clothes, seemed to demand some sort of explanation. Itwas she who provided the opening.

"Will your wife be long away?" she enquired.

Tallente looked at his guest thoughtfully. She was pouring out tea froman ordinary brown earthenware pot with an air of complete absorption inher task. The friendliness of her seemed somehow to warm the atmosphereof the room, even as her sympathy had stolen into the frozen places ofhis life. For the moment he ignored her question. His eyes appraisedher critically, reminiscently. There was something vaguely familiar inthe frank sweetness of her tone and manner.

"I am going to make the most idiotically commonplace remark," he said.
"I cannot believe that this is the first time we have met."

"It isn't," she replied, helping herself to strawberry

"Are you in earnest?" he asked, puzzled.

"Do you mean that I have spoken to you?"

"Absolutely!"

"Not only that but you have made me a present."

He searched the recesses of his memory in vain. She smiled at hisperplexity and began to count on her fingers.

"Let me see," she said, "exactly fourteen years ago you arrived in Parisfrom London on a confidential mission to a certain person."

"To Lord Peters!" he exclaimed.

She nodded.

"You had half an hour to spare after you had finished your business, andyou begged to see the young people. Maggie Peters was always a friendof yours. You came into the morning-room and I was there."

"You?"

"Yes! I was at school in Paris, and I was spending my half-holiday with
Maggie."

"The little brown girl!" he murmured. "I never heard your name, andwhen I sent the chocolates I had to send them to 'the young lady inbrown.' Of course I remember! But your hair was down your back, you hadfreckles, and you were as silent as a mouse."

"You see how much better my memory is than yours," she laughed.

"I am not so sure," he objected. "You took me for the gardener justnow."

"Not when you came down the steps," she protested, "and besides, it isyour own fault for wearing such atrociously old clothes."

"They shall be given away to-morrow," he promised.

"I should think so," she replied. "And you might part with the batteredstraw hat you were wearing, at the same time."

"It shall be done," he promised meekly.

She became reminiscent.

"We were all so interested in you in those days. Lord Peters told us,after you were gone, that some day you would be Prime Minister."

"I am afraid," he sighed, "that I have disappointed most of my friends."

"You have disappointed no one," she assured him firmly. "You willdisappoint no one. You are the one person in politics who has kept asteadfast course, and if you have lost ground a little in the country,and slipped out of people's political appreciation during the lastdecade, don't we all know why? Every one of your friends—and yourwife, of course," she put in hastily, "must be proud that you have lostground. There isn't another man in the country who gave up a greatpolitical career to learn his drill in a cadet corps, who actuallyserved in the trenches through the most terrible battles of the war, andcame out of it a Brigadier-General with all your distinctions."

He felt his heart suddenly swell. No one had ever spoken to him likethis. The newspapers had been complimentary for a day and had acceptedthe verdict of circumstances the next. His wife had simply been thereflex of other people's opinion and the trend of events.

"You make me feel," he told her earnestly, "almost for the first time,that after all it was worth while."

The slight unsteadiness of his tone at first surprised, then brought heralmost to the point of confusion. Their eyes met—a startled glance onher part, merely to assure herself that he was in earnest—andafterwards there was a moment's embarrassment. She accepted a cigaretteand went back to her easy-chair.

"You did not answer the question I asked you a few minutes ago," shereminded him. "When is your wife returning?"

The shadow was back on his face.

"Lady Jane," he said, "if it were not that we are old friends, datingfrom that box of chocolates, remember, I might have felt that I mustmake you some sort of a formal reply. But as it is, I shall tell youthe truth. My wife is not coming hack."

"Not at all?" she exclaimed.

"To me, never," he answered. "We have separated."

"I am so very sorry," she said, after a moment's startled silence. "Iam afraid that I asked a tactless question, but how could I know?"

"There was nothing tactless about it," he assured her. "It makes itmuch easier for me to tell you. I married my wife thirteen years agobecause I believed that her wealth would help me in my career. Shemarried me because she was an American with ambitions, anxious to find adefinite place in English society. She has been disappointed in me.Other circumstances have now presented themselves. I have discoveredthat my wife's affections are bestowed elsewhere. To be perfectlyhonest, the discovery was a relief to me."

"So that is why you are living down here like this?" she murmured.

"Precisely! The one thing for which I am grateful," he went on, "isthat I always refused to let my wife take a big country house. Iinsisted upon an unpretentious place for the times when I could rest. Ithink that I shall settle down here altogether. I can just afford tolive here if I shoot plenty of rabbits, and if Robert's rheumatism isnot too bad for him to look after the vegetable garden."

"Of course you are talking nonsense," she pronounced, a little curtly.

"Why nonsense?"

"You must go back to your work," she insisted.

"Keep this place for your holiday moments, certainly, but for the rest,to talk of settling down here is simply wicked."

"What is my work?" he asked. "I tell you frankly that I do not knowwhere I belong. A very intelligent constituency, stuffed up to thethroat with schoolboard education, has determined that it would prefer arepresentative who has changed his politics already four times. I seemto be nobody's man. Horlock at heart is frightened of me, because he isconvinced that I am not sound, and he has only tried to make use of meas a sop to democracy. The Whigs hate me like poison, hate me evenworse than Horlock. If I were in Parliament, I should not know whichParty to support. I think I shall devote my time to roses."

"And between September and May?"

"I shall hibernate and think about them."

"Of course," she said, with the air of one humoring a child, "you arenot in earnest. You have just been through a very painful experienceand you are suffering from it. As for the rest, you are talkingnonsense."

"Explain, please," he begged.

"You said just now that you did not know where your place was," shecontinued. "You called yourself nobody's man. Why, the most ignorantperson who thinks about things could tell you where you belong. Even Icould tell you."

"Please do," he invited.

She rose to her feet.

"Walk round the garden with me," she begged, brushing the cigarette ashfrom her skirt. "You know what a terrible out-of-door person I am.This room seems to me close. I want to smell the sea from one of thosewonderful lookouts of yours."

He walked with her along one of the lower paths, deliberately avoidingthe upper lookouts. They came presently to a grass-grown pier. Shestood at the end, her firm, capable fingers clenching the stone wall,her eyes looking seaward.

"I will tell you where you belong," she said. "In your heart you mustknow it, but you are suffering from that reaction which comes fromfailure to those people who are not used to failure. You belong to thehead of things. You should hold up your right, hand, and the party youshould lead should form itself about you. No, don't interrupt me," shewent on. "You and all of us know that the country is in a bad way. Sheis feeling all the evils of a too-great prosperity, thrust upon herafter a period of suffering. You can see the dangers ahead—I learntthem first from you in the pages of the reviews, when after the war youforetold the exact position in which we find ourselves to-day.Industrial wealth means the building up of a new democracy. Thedemocracy already exists but it is unrepresented, because those peoplewho should form its bulwark and its strength are attached to variousfactions of what is called the Labour Party. They don't know themselvesyet. No Rienzi has arisen to hold up the looking-glass. If some onedoes not teach them to find themselves, there will be trouble. Mind, Iam only repeating what you have told others."

"It is all true," he agreed.

"Then can't you see," she continued eagerly, "what party it is to whichyou ought to attach yourself—the party which has broken up now intohalf a dozen factions? They are all misnamed but that is no matter.You should stand for Parliament as a Labour or a Socialist candidate,because you understand what the people want and what they ought to have.You should draw up a new and final programme."

"You are a wonderful person," he said with conviction, "but like allpeople who are clear-sighted and who have imagination, you are also atheorist. I believe your idea is the true one, but to stand forParliament as a Labour member you have to belong to one of theacknowledged factions to be sure of any support at all. An independentmember can count his votes by the capful."

"That is the old system," she pointed out firmly. "It is for you tointroduce a new one. If necessary, you must stoop to political cunning.You should make use of those very factions until you are strong enoughto stand by yourself. Through their enmity amongst themselves, one ofthem would come to your side, anyway. But I should like to see youdiscard all old parliamentary methods. I should like to see you speakto the heart of the man who is going to record his vote."

"It is a slow matter to win votes in units," he reminded her.

"But it is the real way," she insisted. "Voting by party and governmentby party will soon come to an end. It must. All that it needs is astrong man with a definite programme of his own, to attack the wholeprinciple."

He looked away from the sea towards the woman by his side. The wind wasblowing in her face, blowing back little strands of her tightly coiledhair, blowing back her coat and skirt, outlining her figure with softand graceful distinction. She was young, healthy and splendid, full ofall the enthusiasm of her age. He sighed a little bitterly.

"All that you say," he reminded her, "should have been said to me by thelittle brown girl in Paris, years ago. I am too old now for greattasks."

She turned towards him with the pitying yet pleasant air of one whowould correct a child.

"You are forty-nine years old and three months," she said.

"How on earth did you know that?" he demanded.

She smiled.

"A valuable little red book called 'Who's Who.' You see, it is no useyour trying to pose as a Methuselah. For a politician you are a youngman. You have time and strength for the greatest of all tasks. Findsome other excuse, sir, if you talk of laying down the sword and pickingup the shuttle."

He looked back seawards. His eyes were following the flight of aseagull, wheeling in the sunlight.

"I suppose you are right," he acknowledged. "No man is too old forwork."

"I beg your pardon, sir."

They turned abruptly around. They had been so engrossed that they hadnot noticed the sound of footsteps. Robert, a little out of breath, wasstanding at attention. There was a disturbed look in his face, a tremorin his voice.

"I beg your pardon, sir," he repeated, "there is—some one here to seeyou."

"Some one?" Tallente repeated impatiently.

Robert leaned a little forward. The effort at lowering his voice onlymade his hoarse whisper sound more agitated.

"A police inspector, sir, from Barnstaple, is waiting in the study."

CHAPTER IV

Mr Inspector Gillian of Barnstaple had no idea of denying hisprofession. He had travelled over in a specially hired motor-car, andhe was wearing his best uniform. He rose to his feet at Tallente'sentrance and saluted a little ponderously.

"Mr. Andrew Tallente, sir?" he enquired.

Tallente silently admitted his identity, waved the inspector back to hisseat—the one high-backed and uncomfortable chair in the room—and tookan easy-chair himself.

"I have come over, sir," the man continued, "according to instructionsreceived by telephone from Scotland Yard. My business is to ask you afew questions concerning the disappearance of the Honourable AnthonyPalliser, who was, I am given to understand, your secretary."

"Dear me!" Tallente exclaimed. "I had no idea that the young man'stemporary absence from polite society would be turned into amelodramatic disappearance."

The inspector took mental note of the levity in Tallente's tone, anddisapproved.

"The Honourable Anthony Palliser disappeared from here, sir, on Tuesdaynight last, the night of your return from London," he said. "I havecome to ask you certain questions with reference to that disappearance."

"Go ahead," Tallente begged. "Care to smoke a cigar?"

"Not whilst on duty, thank you, sir," was the dignified reply.

"You will forgive my cigarette," Tallente observed, lighting one. "Nowyou can go ahead as fast as you like."

"Question number one is this, sir. I wish to know whether Mr.Palliser's abrupt departure from the Manor was due to any disagreementwith you?"

"In a sense I suppose it was," the other acknowledged. "I turned himout of the house."

The inspector did not attempt to conceal his gratification. He made avoluminous note in his pocketbook.

"Am I to conclude, then, that there was a quarrel?" he enquired.

"I do not quarrel with people to whom I pay a salary," Tallente replied.

"When you say that you turned him out of the house, that rather impliesa quarrel, doesn't it? It might even imply—blows."

"You can put your own construction upon it," was the cool reply.

"Had you any idea where the honourable Anthony Palliser was going to?"

"I suggested the devil," Tallente confided blandly. "I expect he willget there some time. I put up with him because I knew his father, buthe is not a young man to make a fuss about."

The inspector was a little staggered.

"I am to conclude, then," he said, "that you were dissatisfied with hiswork as your secretary?"

"Absolutely," was the firm reply. "You have no idea what a mess he wasliable to make of things if he was left alone."

The inspector coughed.

"Mr. Tallente, sir," he said, "my instructions are to ask you todisclose the nature of your displeasure, if any, with the Honourable Mr.Anthony Palliser. In plain words, Scotland Yard desires to know why hewas turned away from his place at a moment's notice."

"I suppose it is the duty of Scotland Yard to be inquisitive in cases ofthis sort," Tallente observed. "You can report to them the whole of thevaluable information with which I have already furnished you, and youcan add that I absolutely refuse to give any information respectingthe—er—difference of opinion between the young man and myself."

The inspector did not conceal his dissatisfaction.

"I shall ask, you, sir," he said with dignity, "to reconsider thatdecision. Remember that it is the police who ask, and in cases of thissort they have special privileges."

"As soon as any criminal case arises from Anthony Palliser'sdisappearance," Tallente pointed out, "you will be in a position to askme questions from a different standpoint. For the present I have givenyou just as much information as I feel inclined to. Shall we leave itat that?"

The inspector appeared to have become hard of hearing. He did notattempt to rise from his chair.

"Being your private secretary, sir," he said, "the Honourable Anthony
Palliser would no doubt have access to your private papers?"

"Naturally," Tallente conceded.

"There might be amongst them papers of importance, papers whosepossession by parties in the other camp of politics—"

"Stop!" Tallente interrupted. "Inspector Gillan, you are an astute man.
Excuse me."

He crossed the room and, with a key which he took from a chain attachedto his trouser button, opened a small but powerful safe fitted into thewall. He opened it confidently enough, gazed inside and remained for amoment transfixed. Then he took up a few little packets of papers,glanced them through and replaced them. He still stood there, danglingthe key in his hard. The inspector watched him curiously.

"Anything missing, sir?" he asked.

Tallente swung the door to and came back to his chair.

"Yes!" he admitted.

"Can I make a note of the nature of the loss, sir?" the man asked,moistening his pencil.

"A political paper of some personal consequence," Tallente replied."Its absence disquiets me. It also confirms my belief that Palliser islying doggo for a time."

"A hint as to the contents of the missing paper would be veryacceptable, sir," Inspector Gillian begged.

Tallente shook his head.

"For the present," he decided, "I can only repeat what I said a fewmoments ago—I have given you just as much information as I feelinclined to."

The inspector rose to his feet.

"My report will not be wholly satisfactory to Scotland Yard, sir," hedeclared.

"My experience of the estimable body is that they take a lot ofsatisfying," Tallente replied. "Will you take anything before you go,Inspector?"

"Nothing whatever, thank you, sir. At the risk of annoying you, I ambound to ask this question. Will you tell me whether anything in thenature of blows passed between you and the Honourable Anthony Palliser,previous to his leaving your house?"

"I will not even satisfy your curiosity to that extent," Tallenteanswered.

"It will be my duty, sir," the inspector said ponderously, "to examinesome of your servants."

"Scotland Yard can do that for themselves," Tallente observed. "My wifeand the greater part of the domestic staff left here for London a weekago."

The representative of the law saluted solemnly.

"I am sorry that you have not felt inclined to treat me with moreconfidence in this matter, Mr. Tallente," he said.

He took his leave then. Tallente heard him conversing for some timewith Robert and saw him in the garden, interviewing the small boy.Afterwards, he climbed into his car and drove away. Tallente opened hissafe and once more let the little array of folded papers slip throughhis hands. Then he rang the bell for Robert, who presently appeared.

"The inspector has quite finished with you?" his master asked.

Robert was a portly man, a little unhealthy in colour and a little shortof breath. He had been gassed in the war and his nerves were not whatthey had been. It was obvious, as he stood on the other side of thetable, that he was trembling.

"Quite, sir. He was enquiring about Mr. Palliser."

His master nodded.

"I am afraid he will find it a little difficult to obtain anyinformation round here," he remarked. "There are certain thingsconnected with that young man which may throw a new light upon hisdisappearance."

"Indeed, sir?" Robert murmured.

Tallente glanced towards the safe.

"Robert," he confided, "I have been robbed."

The man started a little.

"Indeed, sir?" he replied. "Nothing very valuable, I hope?"

"I have been robbed of papers," Tallente said quietly, "which in thewrong hands might ruin me. Mr. Palliser had a key to that safe. Haveyou ever seen it open?"

"Never, sir."

"When did Mr. Palliser arrive here?"

"On the evening train of the Monday, sir, that you arrived by on the
Tuesday."

"Tell me, did he receive any visitors at all on the Tuesday?"

"There was a man came over from a house near Lynton, sir, said his namewas Miller."

"Have you any idea what he wanted?"

"No certain idea, sir," Robert replied doubtfully. "Now I come to thinkof it, though, it seemed as though he had come to make Mr. Pallisersome sort of an offer. After I had let him out, he came back and saidsomething to Mr. Palliser about three thousand pounds, and Mr.Palliser said he would let him know. I got the idea, somehow or other,that the transaction, whatever it might have been, was to be concludedon Tuesday night."

"Why didn't you tell me this before, Robert?" his master enquired.

"Other things drove it out of my mind, sir," the man confessed. "Ididn't look upon it as of much consequence. I thought it was somethingto do with Mr. Palliser's private affairs."

Tallente glanced at the safe.

"I saw this man Miller at the station," he said, "when I arrived."

"That would be on his way back from here, sir," Robert acquiesced. "Igathered that he was coming back again after dinner in a car."

"Did you hear a car at all that night?"

"I rather fancied I did," the man asserted. "I didn't take particularnotice, though."

Tallente frowned.

"I am very much afraid, Robert," he said, "that wherever Mr. Palliseris, those papers are."

Robert shivered.

"Very good, sir," he said, in a low tone.

"Any speculations as to that young man's whereabouts," Tallentecontinued thoughtfully, "must necessarily be a matter of pure guesswork,but supposing, Robert, he should have wandered in that mist the wrongway—turned to the left, for instance, outside this window, instead ofto the right—he might very easily have fallen over the cliff."

"The walk is very unsafe in the dark, sir," Robert acquiesced, lookingdown at the carpet.

"It was not my intention," Tallente remarked thoughtfully, "to kill theyoung man. A brawl in front of the windows was impossible, so I tookhim with me to the lookout. I suppose he was tactless and I lost mytemper. I struck him on the chin and he went backwards, through thatpiece of rotten paling, you know, Robert—"

"I know, sir," the man interrupted, with a little moan. "Please don't!"

Tallente shrugged his shoulders.

"I took him at no disadvantage," he said coolly. "He knew how to usethe gloves and he was twenty years younger than I. However, there it is.Backwards he went, all legs and arms and shrieks. And with him went thepapers he had stolen.—At twelve o'clock to-night, Robert, I must godown after him."

"It's impossible, sir! It's a sheer precipice for four hundred feet!"

"Nothing of the sort," was the cool reply. "There are heaps of ledgesand little clumps of pines and yews. All that you will have to do is topull up the rope when I am ready. You can fasten it to a tree when I godown."

"It's not worth it, sir," the man protested anxiously. "No one willever find the body down there."

"Send the boy home to stay with his parents to-night," Tallentecontinued. "Your wife, I suppose, can be trusted?"

"She is living up at the garage, sir," Robert answered. "Besides, sheis deaf. I'll tell her that I am sleeping in the house to-night as youare not very well. And forgive me, sir—her ladyship left a message.She hoped you would lunch with her to-morrow."

Tallente strolled out again in a few minutes, curiously impatient of therestraint of walls, and clambered up the precipitous field at the backof the Manor. Far up the winding road which led back into the world, amotor-car was crawling on its way up over. He watched it through a pairof field glasses. Leaning back in the tonneau with folded arms, asthough solemnly digesting a problem, was Inspector Gillian. Tallenteclosed the glasses with a little snap and smiled.

"The Bucket type," he murmured to himself, "very much the Bucket type."

CHAPTER V

The moon that night seemed to be indulging in strange vagaries, nowdimly visible behind a mist of thin grey vapour, now wholly obscuredbehind jagged masses of black cloud, and occasionally shiningbrilliantly from a little patch of clear sky. Tallente waited for oneof the latter moments before he finally tested the rope which was woundaround the strongest of the young pine trees and stepped over the rusticwooden paling at the edge of the lookout He stood there balanced betweenearth and sky, until Robert, who watched him, shivered. "There isnothing to fear," his master said coolly. "Remember, I am an old handat mountain climbing, Robert. All the same, if anything should happen,you'd better say that we fancied we heard a cry from down below and Iwent to see what it was. You understand?"

"Yes, sir!"

Tallente took a step into what seemed to be Eternity. The rope cut intohis hands for the first three or four yards, as the red sand crumbledaway beneath his feet, and he was obliged to grip for his life.Presently he gained a little ledge, from which a single yew tree wasgrowing, and paused for breath.

"Are you all right, sir?" Robert called out from above.

"Quite," was the confident answer. "I shall be off again in a minute."

Tallente's head had been the wonder even of members of the Alpine Club,years ago in Switzerland. He found himself now in this strangest of allpositions, absolutely steady and unmoved. Sheer below him, dark,rushing waves broke upon the rocks, sending showers of glittering sprayupwards. Above, the little lookout with its rustic paling seemed almostmore than directly overhead. The few stars and the fugitive moon seemedsomehow set in a different sky. He felt a new kinship with a great gullwho came floating by. He had become himself a creature of the wildplaces. Presently he began once more to let himself down, hand overhand, to where the next little clump of trees showed a chance of aprecarious foothold. The rope chafed his fingers but he remainedabsolutely steady. Once he trusted for a moment to a yew tree, growingout of a fissure in the rock, which came out by the roots and wenthurtling down into space. From overhead he heard Robert's terrifiedcry. The rope stood the strain of his sudden clutch, however, and allwas well. A little lower down, holding on with one hand, he took historch from his pocket and examined the surface of the cliff. Nothingapparently had been disturbed, nor was there any sign of any heavy bodyhaving been dashed through the undergrowth. Soon he went on again,and, working a little to the left, stood for a moment upon a green,turf-covered crag, a tiny plateau covered with the refuse of seagullsand a few stunted trees, from amongst which a startled hawk rose with awild cry. He waited here until the moon shone once more and he couldsee the little strip of shingle below. Nowhere could he find any traceof the thing he sought.

At the end of half an hour's climbing, he reached the end of the rope.The little cove, filled with tumbled rocks and a narrow strip of beach,was still about eighty feet below. The slope here was far lessprecipitous and there was a foothold in many places amongst the thinlygrowing firs and dwarfed oaks. Calmly he let go the rope and commencedto scramble. More than once his foot slipped, but he was always in aposition to save himself. The time came at last when he stood upon thepebbly beach, surprised to find that his knees were shaking and hisbreath coming fast. The little place was so enclosed that when helooked upwards it seemed as though he were at the bottom of a pit, asthough the stars and the doubtful moon had receded and he was somehow inthe bowels of the earth instead of being on the sea level. There wereonly a few feet of the shingle dry, and a great wave, breaking amongstthe huge rocks, drenched him with spray. He proceeded with his task,however, searching methodically amongst the rocks, scanning the pebblybeach with his torch, always amazed that nowhere could he find theslightest trace of what he sought. Finally, drenched to the skin andutterly exhausted, he commenced once more the upward climb. He was anhour reaching the end of the rope. Then he blew the whistle and therest was easy. Nevertheless, when the paling came into sight and hefelt Robert's arms under his shoulders, he reeled over towards the seatand lay there, his clothes caked in red mud, the knees of hisknickerbockers cut, blood on his hands and forehead, breathless. Robertforced brandy down his throat, however, and in a moment or two he washimself again.

"A miracle!" he gasped. "There is nothing there."

"There was something dark, I fancied, upon the strip of beach, sir,"
Robert ventured.

"I thought so too. It was a tarred plank of timber."

"Then the tide must have reached him."

Tallente rose to his feet and looked over.

"The sea alone knows," he said. "For the first time, though, Robert, Ifeel inclined to agree with the newspapers, who speak of the strangedisappearance of the Honourable Antimony Palliser. Could any man gobackwards over that palisading, do you think, and save his life?"

Robert shook his head.

"Miracles can't happen, sir," he muttered.

"Nevertheless," Tallente said, a little gloomily, "the sea never keepswhat the land gives it. My fate will rest with the tides."

Robert suddenly gripped his master's arm. The moon had disappearedunderneath a fragment of cloud and they stood in complete darkness.Both men listened. From one of the paths which led through the groundsfrom the beach, came the sound of muffled footsteps. A startled owlflew out and wheeled over their heads with a queer little cry.

"Who's that in the grounds, Robert?" Tallente demanded.

"I've no idea, sir," the latter replied, his voice shaking. "Thecottage is empty. The boy went home—I saw him start off. There is noone else about the place."

Nevertheless, the footsteps came nearer. By and by, through the trees,came the occasional flash of an electric torch. Robert turned towardsthe house but Tallente gripped him by the arm.

"Stop here," he muttered. "We couldn't get away. Any one would hearour footsteps along this flinty path. Besides, there is the rope."

"It's someone else searching!" Robert whispered hoarsely.

The light grew nearer and nearer. A little way below, the path branchedto the right and the left. To the left it encircled the tennis lawn andled to the Manor or back to the road. The path to the right led to thelittle lookout upon which the two men were standing. The footsteps fora moment hesitated. Then the light flashed out and approached. Whoeverthe intruder might be, he was making his way directly towards them.Tallente shrugged his shoulders.

"We must see this through, Robert," he said. "We were in a tightercorner at Ypres, remember. Keep as quiet as you can. Now, then."

Tallente flashed on his own torch.

"Who's there?" he asked sternly.

There was no answer. The torch for a moment remained stationary, thenit began again to advance.

"What are you doing in my grounds?" Tallente demanded. "Who are you?"

A shape loomed into distinctness. A bulky man in dark clothes came intosight.

"I am Gillian—Inspector Gillian. What are you doing out here, Mr.
Tallente?"

Tallente laughed a little scornfully.

"It seems to me that the boot is on the other leg," he said. "I shouldlike to know what the mischief you mean by wandering around my groundsat this hour of the night without my permission?"

The inspector completed his climb and stood in the little circle oflight. He took note of the rope and of Tallente's condition.

"My presence here, sir," the inspector announced, "is connected with thedisappearance of the Honourable Anthony Palliser."

"Confidence for confidence," Tallente replied. "So is mine."

The inspector moved to the palisading. The top rail had been broken, asthough it had given under the weight of some heavy body. He held up theloose fragment, glanced downwards into the dark gulf and back again toTallente. "You've been over there," he said. "I have," Tallenteadmitted. "I've made a search that I don't fancy you'd have tackledyourself. I've been down the cliff to the beach."

"What reason had you for supposing that you might discover Mr.
Palliser's body there?" the other asked bluntly.

Tallente sat on the stone seat and lit a cigarette.

"I will take you into my confidence, Mr. Inspector," he said. "Thisafternoon I strolled round here with a lady caller, just before youcame, and I fancied that I heard a faint cry. I took no notice of it atthe time, but to-night, after dinner, I wandered out here again, andagain I fancied I heard it. It got on my nerves to such an extent thatI fetched Robert here, a coil of rope, put on some shoes with spikes andtried to remember that I was an Alpine climber."

"You've been down to the beach and back, sir?" the inspector asked,looking over a little wonderingly.

"Every inch of the way. The last eighty feet or so I had to scramble."

"Did you discover anything, sir?"

"Not a thing. I couldn't even find a broken twig in any of the littleclumps of outgrowing trees. There wasn't a sign of the sand having beendisturbed anywhere down the face of the cliff, and I shouldn't think ahuman being had been on that beach during our lifetimes. I have had mynight's work for nothing."

"It was just the cry you fancied you heard which made you undertake thisexpedition?"

"Precisely!"

The inspector held up the broken rail.

"When was this smashed?" he enquired.

"I have no idea," Tallente answered. "All the woodwork about the placeis rotten."

"Doesn't it occur to you, sir, as being an extraordinarily dangerousthing to put it back in exactly the same position as though it weresound?"

"Iniquitous," Tallente agreed.

The inspector made a mental note. Tallente threw the remains of hiscigarette into the sea. "I am going to bed now." he said. "Can I offeryou any refreshment, Mr. Inspector, or are your investigations not yetcomplete?"

"I thank you, sir, but I require nothing. I have some men up in thewood there and I shall join them presently. I am staying in theneighborhood."

Tallente pointed to the rope.

"If you would care to search for yourself, Mr. Inspector, we'll helpyou down."

The man shook his head.

"Scarcely a job for a man of my build, sir. I have a professionalclimber coming to-morrow. I wish you had informed me of your intentionto go down to-night."

"If you had informed me of your intention to remain in the neighborhood,that might have been possible," was the cool reply. The man took theloose wooden rail from its place and held it under his arm. "Walkingoff with a portion of my fence, eh?" Tallente asked.

The inspector made no direct reply. He turned his torch on to thebroken end.

"A clue?" Tallente asked him lightly. The other turned away. "It isnot my place, sir," he announced, "to share any discovery I might makewith a person who has deliberately refused to assist the law."

"No one has convinced me yet," Tallente replied, "that Palliser'sdisappearance is a matter in which the law need concern itself." Theinspector coughed. "I wish you good night, sir." He disappeared alongthe narrow path. They listened to his retreating footsteps. Tallentepicked up his end of the rope. "I was right," he said, as he led theway back to the house. "Quite the Inspector Bucket type."

CHAPTER VI

At noon the next day, Tallente, nervously as well as physicallyexhausted with the long climb from the Manor, turned aside from thestraight, dusty road and seated himself upon a lichen-covered boulder.He threw his cap on the ground, filled and lighted an old briar pipe,and gazed with a queer mixture of feelings across the moorland to whereWoolhanger spread itself, a queer medley of dwelling house and farmbuildings, strangely situated at the far end of the table-land he wascrossing, where the moor leaned down to a great hollow in the hills.The open stretch of common which lay between him and his destination hadnone of the charm of the surrounding country. It was like a dark spotset in the midst of the rolling splendours of the moorland proper.There were boulders of rock of unknown age, dark patches of peat land,where even in midsummer the mud oozed up at the lightest footfall, poolsand sedgy places, the home and sometimes the breeding place of themelancholy snipe. Of colour there was singularly little. The heatherbushes were stunted, their roots blackened as though with fire, and eventhe yellow of the gorse shone with a dimmer lustre. But in thedistance, a flaming carpet of orange and purple stretched almost to thesummit of the brown hills of kindlier soil, and farther round,westwards, richly cultivated fields, from which the labourers seemed tohang like insects in the air, rolled away almost to the clouds.

Tallente looked at them a little wearily, impressed with the allegoricalsignificance of his position. It seemed to him that he was in the landto which he belonged, the barren land of desolation and failure. Thetriumphs of the past failed for a moment to thrill his pulses. Thememory of his well-lived and successful life brought him not an atom ofconsolation. The present was all that mattered, and the present hadbrought him to the gates of failure.—After all, what did a man workfor, he wondered? What was the end and aim of it all? Life atMartinhoe Manor, with a faithful but terrified manservant, bookshelvesready to afford him the phantasmal satisfaction of another man'sthoughts, sea and winds, beauties of landscape and colour, to bring himto the threshold of an epicurean pleasure which needed yet that onepulsating link with humanity to yield the full meed of joy and content.It all came back to the old story of man's weakness, he thought, as herose to his feet, his teeth almost savagely clenching his pipe. He hadbecome a conqueror of circumstances only to become a victim of theprimitive needs of life.

At about a quarter of a mile from the house, the road branched away tothe left to disappear suddenly over the edge of a drop of many hundredsof feet. Tallente passed through a plain white gate, down an avenue ofdwarfed oaks, to emerge into an unexpectedly green meadow, cloventhrough the middle with a straight white avenue. Through another gatehe passed into a drive which led through flaming banks of rhododendrons,now a little past their full glory, to the front of the house, a longand amplified building which, by reason of many additions, had become anabode of some pretensions. A manservant answered his ring at once andled him into a cool, white stone hall, the walls of which were hung fromfloor to ceiling with hunting and sporting trophies.

"Her ladyship is still at the farm, sir," the man announced. "She saidif you came before she returned would you care to step round?"

Tallente signified his assent and was led through the house, across amore extensive garden, from which a marvellous view of the valley andthe climbing slopes behind held him spellbound, by the side of a small,quaintly shaped church, to a circular group of buildings of considerableextent. The man conducted him to the front of a white-plastered cottagecovered with roses, and knocked at the door.

"This is her ladyship's office, sir," he announced.

Lady Jane's invitation to enter was clear and friendly. Tallente foundher seated behind a desk, talking to a tall man in riding clothes, whoswung around to eye the newcomer with a curiosity which seemed somehownot altogether friendly. Lady Jane held out her hand and smileddelightfully.

"Do come in, Mr. Tallente," she begged. "I can't tell you how glad Iam to see you. Now you will believe, won't you, that I am notaltogether an idler in life? This is my agent, Mr. Segerson—Mr.Tallente."

Lionel Segerson held out his hand. He was a tall, well-built youngDevonian, sunburnt, with fair curly hair, a somewhat obstinate type ofcountenance, and dressed in the dandified fashion of the sportingfarmer.

"Glad to know you, Mr. Tallente," he said, in a tone which lackedenthusiasm. "I hope you're going to stay down in these parts for atime?"

Tallente made only a monosyllabic reply, and Lady Jane, with a littlegesture of apology, continued her conversation with Segerson.

"I should like you," she directed, "to see James Crockford for yourself.Try and explain my views to him—you know them quite well. I want himto own his land. You can tell him that within the last two years I havesold eleven farms to their tenants, and no one could say that I have notdone so on easy terms. But I need further convincing that Crocker is inearnest about the matter, and that he will really work to make his farma success. In five good years he has only saved a matter of fourhundred pounds, although his rental has been almost insignificant. Thatis the worst showing of any of the tenants on the estate, and though ifI had more confidence in him I would sell on a mortgage, I don't feelinclined to until he has shown that he can do better. Tell him that hecan have the farm for two thousand pounds, but he must bring me eighthundred in cash and it must not be borrowed money. That ought tosatisfy him. He must know quite well that I could get three thousandpounds for it in the open market."

"These fellows never take any notice of that," Segerson remarked.
"Ungrateful beggars, all of them. I'll tell him what you say, Lady
Jane."

"Thank you."

"Anything else?" the young man asked, showing a disposition to linger.

"Nothing, thanks, until to-morrow morning." There was even then a slightunwillingness in his departure, which provoked a smile from Lady Jane asthe door closed.

"The young men of to-day are terribly spoilt," she said. "He expectedto be asked to lunch."

"I am glad he wasn't," Tallente observed.

She laughed.

"Why not? He is quite a nice young man."

"No doubt," Tallente agreed, without conviction. "However, I hate youngmen and I want to talk to you."

"Young men are tiresome sometimes," she agreed, rising from her chair.

"And older ones too, I am afraid!"

She closed her desk and he stood watching her. She was wearing anextraordinarily masculine garb—a covert-coating riding costume, withbreeches and riding boots concealed under a long coat—but shecontrived, somehow, to remain altogether feminine. She stood for amoment looking about her, as though wondering whether there wereanything else to be done, a capable figure, attractive because of herearnest self-possession.

"Sarah," she called out.

The sound of a typewriter in an inner room ceased. The door was openedand a girl appeared on the threshold.

"You won't see me again to-day unless you send up for me," her mistressannounced. "Let me have the letters to sign before five. Try and getaway early, if you can. The car is going in to Lynton. Perhaps youwould like the ride?"

"I should enjoy it very much, your ladyship," the girl repliedgratefully. "There is really very little to do this afternoon."

"You can bring the letters whenever you like, then," Lady Jane told her,"and let Martin know that you are going in with him."

"You study your people, I see," Tallente remarked, as they strolledtogether back to the house.

"I try," she assented. "I try to do what I can in my little communityhere, very much as you, in a far greater way, try to study the people inyour political programme. Of course," she went on, "it is far easierfor me. The one thing I try to develop amongst them is a genuine, nota false spirit of independence. I want them to lean upon no one. Ihave no charities in connection with the estate, no soup kitchens orcoal at Christmas, or anything of that sort. My theory is that everyperson is the better for being able to look after himself, and my ideaof charity is placing him in a position to be able to do it. I don'twant to be their Lady of the Manor and accept their rents and give thema dinner. I try to encourage them to save money and to buy their ownfarms. The man here who owns his own farm and makes it pay is in aposition to lead a thoroughly self-respecting and honourable life. Heought to get what there is to be got out of life, and his childrenshould be yeomen citizens of the best possible type. Of course, allthis sort of thing is so much easier in the country. Very often, in thewinter nights here, I waste my time trying to think out your greaterproblems."

"Problems," he observed, "which the good people of Hellesfield have justdecided that I am not the man to solve."

"An election counts for nothing," she declared. "The merest whim willlead thousands of voters into the wrong polling booth. Besides, nearlyall the papers admit that your defeat was owing to a political intrigue.The very men who should have supported you—who had promised to supportyou, in fact—went against you at the last moment. That was entirelydue to Miller, wasn't it?"

"Miller has been my political bête noir for years," he confessed. "Tome he represents the ignominious pacifist, whereas to him I representthe sabre-rattling jingo. I got the best of it while the war was on.To-day it seems to me that he has an undue share of influence in thecountry."

"Who are the men who really represent what you and I would understand as
Labour?" she asked.

"That is too difficult a question to answer offhand," he replied."Personally, I have come to the conclusion that Labour isunrepresentable—Labour as a cause. There are too many of the peopleyet who haven't vision."

They passed into the cool, geranium-scented hall. She pointed to aneasy-chair by the side of which was set, on a small mahogany table, asilver cocktail shaker and two glasses.

"Please be as comfortable as you can," she begged, "for a quarter of anhour. If you like to wash, a touch of the bell there will bring Morton.I must change my clothes. I had to ride out to one of the outlyingfarms this morning, and we came back rather quickly."

She moved about the hall as she spoke, putting little things to rights.Then she passed up the circular staircase. At the bend she looked backand caught him watching her. She waved her hand with a little less thanher usual frankness. Tallente had forgotten for a moment hiswhereabouts, his fatigue, his general weariness. He had turned aroundin his chair and was watching her. She found something in the veryintensity of his gaze disturbing, vaguely analogous to certainhalf-formed thoughts of her own. She called out some light remark,scoffed at herself, and ran lightly out of sight, calling to her maid asshe went.

CHAPTER VII

Luncheon was served in a small room at the back of the house. Throughthe wide-flung French windows was a vista of terraced walks, the twosunken tennis lawns, a walled garden leading into an orchard, andbeyond, the great wood-hung cleft in the hills, on either side of whichthe pastoral fields, like little squares, stretched away upwards. Fromhere there was no trace of the more barren, unkinder side of themoorland. The succession of rich colours merged at last into the dim,pearly hue where sky and cloud met, in the golden haze of the Augustheat, a haze more like a sort of transparent filminess than anythingwhich really obscured.

Lady Jane, whose gift of femininity had triumphed even over her farmclothes, seemed to Tallente to convey a curiously mingled impression ofrestfulness and delicate charm in her cool, white muslin dress, low atthe neck, the Paquin-made garment of an Aphrodite. She talked to himwith all the charm of an accomplished hostess, and yet with theoccasional fascinating reserve of the woman who finds her companionsomething more than ordinarily sympathetic. The butler served themunattended from the sideboard, but before luncheon was half way throughthey dispensed with his services.

"I suppose it has occurred to you by this time, Mr. Tallente," shesaid, as she watched the coffee in a glass machine by her side, "that Iam a very unconventional person."

"Whatever you are," he replied, "I am grateful for."

"Cryptic, but with quite a nice sort of sound about it," she observed,smiling. "Tell me honestly, though, aren't you surprised to find meliving here quite alone?"

"It seems to me perfectly natural," he answered.

"I live without a chaperon," she went on, "because a chaperon called bythat name would bore me terribly. As a matter of fact, though, there isgenerally some one staying here. I find it easy enough to persuade myfriends and some of my relatives that a corner of Exmoor is not half abad place in the spring and summer. It is through the winter that I amgenerally avoided."

"I have always had a fancy to spend a winter on Exmoor," he confided.

"It has its compensations," she agreed, "apart, of course, from thehunting."

He felt the desire to speak of more vital things. What did hunting orchaperons more or less matter to the Lady Janes of the world! Alreadyhe knew enough of her to be sure that she would have her way in anycrisis that might arise. "How much of the year," he asked, "do youactually spend here?"

"As much as I can."

"You are content to be here alone, even in the winter?"

"More contented than I should be anywhere else," she assured him.
"There is always plenty to do, useful work, too—things that count."

"London?"

"Bores me terribly," she confessed.

"Foreign travel?"

She nodded more tolerantly.

"I have done a little of it," she said. "I should love to do more, buttravel as travel is such an unsatisfying thing. If a place attractsyou, you want to imbibe it. Travel leaves you no time to do anythingbut sniff. Life is so short. One must concentrate or one achievesnothing. I know what the general idea of a stay-at-home is," she wenton. "Many of my friends consider me narrow. Perhaps I am. Anyhow, Iprefer to lead a complete and, I believe, useful life here, to lookingback in later years upon that hotchpotch of lurid sensations, tangledimpressions and restless moments that most of them call life."

"You display an amazing amount of philosophy for your years," heventured, after a little hesitation. "There is one instinct, however,which you seem to ignore."

"What is it, please?"

"Shall I call it the gregarious one, the desire for companionship ofyoung people of your own age?"

She shrugged her shoulders. She had the air of one faintly amused byhis diffidence.

"You mean that I ought to be husband hunting," she said. "I quite admitthat a husband would be a very wonderful addition to life. I have noneof the sentiments of the old maid. On the other hand, I am rather afatalist. If any man is likely to come my way whom I should care tomarry, he is just as likely to find me here as though I tramped thethoroughfares of the world, searching for him. At last!" she went on,in a changed tone, as she poured out his coffee. "I do hope you willfind it good. The cigarettes are at your elbow. This is quite one ofthe moments of life, isn't it?"

He agreed with her emphatically.

"A counsel of perfection," he murmured, as he sniffed the delicate
Turkish tobacco. "Tell me some more about yourself?"

She shook her head.

"I am much too selfish a person," she declared, "and nothing that I door say or am amounts to very much. I want you to let me a little wayinto your life. Talk either about your soldiering or your politics.You have been a Cabinet Minister and you will be again. Tell me what itfeels like to be one of the world's governors?"

"Let us finish talking about you first," he begged. "You spoke quitefrankly of a husband. Tell me, have you made up your mind what mannerof man he must be?"

"Not in the least. I am content to leave that entirely to fate."

"Bucolic? Intellectual? An artist? A man of affairs?"

She made a little grimace.

"How can I tell? I cannot conceive caring for an ordinary person, butthen every woman feels like that. And, you see, if I did care, hewouldn't be ordinary—to me. And so far as I am concerned," sheinsisted, with a shade of restlessness in her manner, "that finishes thesubject. You must please devote yourself to telling me at least someof the things I want to know. What is the use of having one of theworld's successful men tête-a-tête, a prisoner to my hospitality, unlessI can make him gratify my curiosity?"

The thought created by her words burned through his mind like a flash ofdestroying lightning.

"One of the world's successful men," he repeated. "Is that how I seemto you?"

"And to the world," she asserted.

He shook his head sadly.

"I have worked very hard," he said. "I have been very ambitious. A fewof my ambitions have been gratified, but the glory of them has passedwith attainment. Now I enter upon the last lap and I possess none ofthe things I started out in life to achieve."

"But how absurd!" she exclaimed. "You are one of our great politicians.
You would have to be reckoned with in any regrouping of parties."

"Without even a seat in the House of Commons," he reminded her bitterly."And again, how can a man be a great politician when there are nopolitics? The confusion amongst the parties has become chaos, and I forone have not been clear-sighted enough to see my way through."

"Of course, I know vaguely what you mean," she said, "but remember thatI am only a newspaper-educated politician. Can't you be a little moreexplicit?"

He lit another cigarette and smoked restlessly for a moment.

"I'll try and explain, if I can," he went on. "To be a successfulpolitician, from the standard which you or I would aim at, a man needsnot only political insight, but he needs to be able to adopt his viewsto the practical programme of one of the existing parties, or else to bestrong enough to form a party of his own. That is where I have come tothe cul-de-sac in my career. It was my ambition to guide the workingclasses of the country into their rightful place in our social scheme,but I have also always been an intensely keen Imperialist, and thereforeat daggers drawn with many of the so-called Labour leaders. Theconsequence has been that for ten years I have been hanging on to thethin edge of nothing, a member of the Coalition Government, a member bysufferance of a hotchpotch party which was created by the combination ofthe Radicals and the Unionists with the sole idea of seeing the countrythrough its great crisis. All legislation, in the wider sense of theterm, had to be shelved while the country was in danger and while it wasrecovering itself. That time I spent striving to educate the people Iwanted to represent, striving to make them see reason, to combat the twoelements in their outlook which have been their eternal drawback, theelements of blatant selfishness and greedy ignorance. Well, I failed.That is all there is about it—I failed. No party claims me. I haven'teven a seat in the House of Commons. I am nearly fifty years old and Iam tired."

"Nearly fifty years old!" she repeated. "But what is that? Youhave—health, you are strong and well, there is nothing a younger mancan do that you cannot. Why do you worry about your age?"

"Perhaps," he admitted, with a faint smile, and an innate compulsion totell her of the thought which had lurked behind, "because you are somarvelously young."

"Absurd!" she scoffed. "I am twenty-nine years old—practically thirty.That is to say, with the usual twenty years' allowance, you and I are ofthe same age."

He looked across at her, across the lace-draped table with its bowls offruit, its richly-cut decanter of wine, its low bowl of roses, its hazeof cigarette smoke. She was leaning back in her chair, her head restingupon the fingers of one hand. Her face seemed alive with so manyemotions. She was so anxious to console, so interested in hercompanion, herself, and the moment. He felt something unexpected andirresistible.

"I would to God I could look at it like that!" he exclaimed suddenly.

The words had left his lips before he was conscious that the thoughtwhich had lain at the back of them had found expression in his tone andglance. Just at first they produced no other effect in her save thatevidenced by the gently upraised eyebrows, the sweetly tolerant smile.And then a sudden cloud, scarcely of discomfiture, certainly not ofdispleasure, more of unrest, swept across her face. Her eyes no longermet his so clearly and frankly. There was a little mist there and asilence. She was looking away through the windows to the dim, pearlyline of blue, the actual horizon of things present. Her pulses werescarcely steady. She was possessed to a full extent of the herqualities of courage, physical and spiritual, yet at that moment shefelt a wave of curious fear, the fear of the idealist that she may notbe true to herself.

The moment passed and she looked at him with a smile. An innate gift ofconcealment, the heritage of her sex, came to her rescue, but she felt,somehow or other, as though she had passed through one of the crises ofher life—that she could never be quite the same again. She had ceasedfor those few seconds to be natural.

"What does that wish mean?" she asked. "Do you mean that you would liketo agree with me, or would you like to be twenty-nine?"

He too turned his back upon that little pool of emotion, did his best tobe natural and easy, to shut out the memory of that flaming moment.

"At twenty-nine," he told her, "I was First Secretary at St.Petersburg. I am afraid that I was rather a dull dog, too. All Russia,even then, was seething, and I was trying to understand. I never did.No one ever understood Russia. The explanation of all that has happenedthere is simply the eternal duplication of history—a huge class ofpeople, physically omnipotent, conscious of wrongs, unintelligent, andled by false prophets. All revolutions are the same. The purging istoo severe, so the good remains undone."

There followed a silence, purposeful on her port, scarcely realised byhim. She sought for means of escape, to bring their conversation downto the level where alone safety lay. She moved her chair a littlefarther back into the scented chamber, as though she found the sunlighttoo dazzling.

"You are like so many of the men who work for us," she said. "You arejust a little tired, aren't you? You come down here to rest, and I digup all the old problems and ask you to vex yourself with them. We musttalk about slighter things. You are going to shoot here thisseason—perhaps hunt, later on?"

"I do not think so," he answered. "I have forgotten what sports mean.I may take a gun out sometimes. There is a little shooting that goeswith the Manor, but very few birds, I believe. The last ten years seemto have driven all those things out of one's mind."

"Don't you think that you are inclined to take life a little tooearnestly?" she asked. "One should have amusements."

"I may feel the necessity," he replied, "but it is not easy to take upone's earlier pleasures at my time of life."

"Don't think me inquisitive," she went on, "but, as I told you, I havelooked you up in one of those wonderful books which tell us everythingabout everybody. You were a Double Blue at Oxford."

"Racquets and cricket," he assented. "Neither of them much use to menow."

"Racquets would help you with lawn tennis," she said, "but beyond that Ifind that not a dozen years ago you were a scratch golfer, and youcertainly won the amateur championship of Italy."

"It is eleven years since I touched a club," he told her.

"Then you ought to be ashamed of yourself," she declared. "Games arepart of an Englishman's life, and when he neglects them altogether thereis something wrong. I shall insist upon your taking up lawn tennisagain. I have two beautiful courts there, and very seldom any one toplay with who has the least idea of the game."

His eyes rested for a moment upon the smoothly shaven lawns.

"So you think that regeneration may come to me through lawn tennis?" hemurmured.

"And why not? You are taking yourself far too seriously, you know. Howdo you expect regeneration to come?"

"Shall I tell you what it is I lack?" he answered suddenly. "Incentive.I think my will has suddenly grown flabby, the ego in me unresponsive.You know the moods in which one asks oneself whether it is worth while,whether anything is worth while. Well, I am there at the crossroads. Ithink I feel more inclined to look for a seat than to go on."

"The strongest of us need to rest sometimes," she agreed quietly.

He relapsed into a silence so apparently deliberate that she accepted itas a respite for herself also. From the greater seclusion of hershadowy seat, she found herself presently able to watch himunnoticed,—the brooding melancholy of his face, the nervous,unsatisfied mouth, the discontent of his sombre brows. Then, even asshe watched, the change in his expression startled her. His eyes werefixed upon the narrow ribbon of road which twisted around the other sideof the house and led over the bleaker moors, seawards. The look puzzledher, gave her an uncomfortable feeling. Its note of appreciation seemedto her inexplicable. With a quaint, electrical sympathy, he caught theunspoken question in her eyes and translated it.

"You are beginning to doubt me," he said. "You are wondering if theshadow I carry with me is not something more than the mere depression ofa man who has failed."

"You have not failed," she declared, "and I never doubt you, but therewas something in your face just then which was strange, something aliento our talk. It was as though you saw something ominous in thedistance."

"It is true," he admitted. "In the distance I can see the car I orderedto come and fetch me. There is a passenger—a man in the tonneau. I amwondering who he is."

"Some one to whom your man has given a lift, perhaps," she suggested.

He shook his head.

"I have another feeling—perhaps I should say an apprehension. It issome one who brings news."

"Political or—domestic?"

"Neither," he answered. "I thought that Fate had dealt me out most ofher evil tricks when I came down here, a political outcast. She hadanother one up her sleeve, however. Do you read your morning papers?"

"Every day," she confessed. "Is it a weakness?"

"Not at all."

"You read of the disappearance of the Honourable Anthony Palliser?"

"Of course," she answered. "Besides, you told me about it, did younot, yesterday afternoon? I know one of his sisters quite well, and Iwas looking forward to seeing something of him down here."

"I was obliged to dismiss him at a moment's notice," Tallente went on."He betrayed his trust and he has disappeared. That very imposingpolice inspector who broke up our tête-a-tête yesterday afternoon and Ifear shortened your visit came on his account. He was the spokesman fora superior authority in London. They have come to the conclusion that Icould, if I chose, throw some light upon his disappearance."

"And could you?"

He rose to his feet.

"You are the one person in the world," he said, "to whom I could tellnothing but the truth. I could."

They both heard the sound of footsteps in the hall. Lady Jane,disturbed by the ominous note in Tallente's voice, rose also to herfeet, glancing from him towards the door, filled with some vague,inexplicable apprehension. Tallente showed no fear, but it was plainthat he had nerved himself to face evil things. There was somethingalmost ludicrous in this denouement to a situation which to both hadseemed filled with almost dramatic possibilities. The door was openedby Parkins, the stout, discreet man servant, ushering in the unkempt,ill-tailored, ungainly figure of James Miller.

"This gentleman," Parkins announced, "wishes to see Mr. Tallente onurgent business."

CHAPTER VIII

The newcomer had distinctly the best of the situation. Tallente, whohad expected a very different visitor, was for the moment bereft ofwords. Lady Jane, who, among her minor faults, was inclined to be asupercilious person, with too great a regard for externals, gazed uponthis strange figure which had found its way into her sanctum with anastonishment which kept her also silent.

"Sorry to intrude," Mr. Miller began, with an affability which he meantto be reassuring. "Mr. Tallente, will you introduce me to the lady?"

Tallente acquiesced unwillingly.

"Lady Jane," he said, "this is Mr. James Miller—Lady Jane Partington."

Mr. Miller was impressed, held out his hand and withdrew it.

"I must apologize for this intrusion, Lady Jane, and to you, Tallente,of course. Mr. Tallente is naturally surprised to see me. He and Iare political opponents," he confided, turning to Jane.

Her surprise increased, if possible.

"Are you Mr. Miller, the Democrat M.P.?" she asked,—"the Mr. Millerwho was making those speeches at Hellesfield last week?"

"At your ladyship's service," he replied, with a low bow. "I am afraidif you are a friend of Mr. Tallente's you must look upon me as a verydisagreeable person."

"If the newspapers are to be believed, your strategies up at Hellesfieldscarcely give one an exalted idea of your tactics," she replied coldly."They all seem to agree that Mr. Tallente was cheated out of his seat."

The intruder smiled tolerantly. He glanced around the room as thoughexpecting to be asked to seat himself. No invitation of the sort,however, was accorded him. "All's fair in love and politics, LadyJane," he declared. "We Democrats have our programme, and our motto isthat those who are not with us are against us. Mr. Tallente here knewpretty well what he was up against."

"On the contrary," Tallente interrupted, "one never knows what one is upagainst when you are in the opposite camp, Miller. Would you mindexplaining why you have sought me out in this singular fashion?"

"Certainly," was the gracious reply. "You have a very distinguishedvisitor over at the Manor, waiting there to see you. I came over withhim and found your car on the point of starting. I took the liberty ofhunting you up so that there should be no delay in your return."

"And who may this distinguished visitor he?" Tallente enquired, withunconscious sarcasm. "Stephen Dartrey," Miller answered. "He and MissMiall and I are staying not far from you."

"Stephen Dartrey?" Lady Jane murmured. "Dartrey?" Tallente echoed. "Doyou mean to say that he is over at the Manor now?"

"Waiting to see you," Miller announced, and for a moment there was alittle gleam of displeasure in his eyes. Lady Jane sighed. "Now, ifonly you'd brought him over with you, Mr. Miller," she said, a shademore amiably, "you would have given me real pleasure. There is no manwhom I am more anxious to meet." Miller smiled tolerantly. "Dartrey isa very difficult person," he declared. "Although he is the leader ofour party, and before very long will be the leader of the whole LabourParty, although he could be Prime Minister to-morrow if he cared aboutit; he is one of the most retiring men whom I ever knew. At the presentmoment I believe that he would have preferred to have remained livinghis hermit's life, a writer and a dilettante, if circumstances had notdragged him into politics. He lives in the simplest way and hates allsociety save the company of a few old cronies."

"What does Dartrey want with me?" Tallente interrupted, a littlebrusquely. "It is no part of my mission to explain," Miller replied."I undertook to come here and beg you to return at once." Tallenteturned to Lady Jane. "You will forgive me?" he begged. "In any case, Imust have been going in a few minutes."

"I should forgive you even if you went without saying good-by," shereplied, "and I can assure you that I shall envy you. I do not want toturn your head," she went on pleasantly, as she walked by his sidetowards the door and across the hall, rather ignoring Miller, whofollowed behind, "but for the last two or three years the only politicalfigures who have interested me at all have been Dartrey andyourself—you as the man of action, and Dartrey as the most wonderfulexponent of the real, higher Socialism. I had a shelf made for histhree books alone. They hang in my bedroom and I look upon them as mytextbooks."

"I must tell Dartrey this," Miller remarked from behind. "I am surehe'll be flattered."

"What can he want with you?" Lady Jane asked, dropping her voice alittle.

"I can't tell," Tallente confessed. "His visit puzzles me. He is thehermit of politics. He seldom makes advances and has few friends. Heis, I believe, a man with the highest sense of honour. Perhaps he hascome to explain to me why they threw me out at Hellesfield."

"In any case," she said, as they stood for a moment on the step, "I feelthat something exciting is going to happen."

Miller, carrying his tweed cap in his hand, insisted upon a farewell.

"Sorry to have taken your guest away, Lady Jane," he said. "It's animportant occasion, however. Would you like me to bring Dartrey over,if we are out this way before we go back?"

She shook her head.

"No, I don't think so," she answered quietly. "I might have an illusiondispelled. Thank you very much, all the same."

Mr. Miller stepped into the car, a little discomfited. Tallentelingered on the step.

"You will let me know?" she begged.

"I will," he promised. "It is probably just a visit of courtesy.
Dartrey must feel that he has something to explain about Hellesfield."

There was a moment's curious lingering. Each seemed to seek in vain fora last word. They parted with a silent handshake. Tallente lookedaround at the corner of the avenue. She was still standing there,gazing after the car, slim, cool and stately. Miller waved his cap andshe disappeared.

The car sped over the moorland. Miller, with his cap tucked into hispocket, leaned forward, taking deep gulps of the wonderful air.

"Marvellous!" he exclaimed. "Tallente, you ought to live for ever insuch a spot!"

"What does Dartrey want to see me about?" his companion asked, a littleabruptly.

Miller coughed, leaned back in his place and became impressive.

"Tallente," he said, "I don't know exactly what Dartrey is going to sayto you. I only know this, that it is very possible he may make you, onbehalf of all of us—the Democratic Party, that is to say—an offerwhich you will do well to consider seriously."

"To join your ranks, I suppose?"

"I must not betray a confidence," Miller continued cautiously. "At thesame time, you know our power, you have insight enough to guess at ourdestiny. It is an absolute certainty that Dartrey, if he chooses, maybe the next Prime Minister. You might have been in Horlock's Cabinetbut for an accident. It may be that you are destined to be inDartrey's."

Tallente found his thoughts playing strange pranks with him. No manappreciated the greatness of Dartrey more than he. No man, perhaps, hada more profound conviction as to the truth and future of the principlesof which he had become the spokesman. He realised the irresistiblepower of the new democracy. He was perfectly well aware that it waswithin Dartrey's power to rule the country whenever he chose. Yet thereseemed something shadowy about these things, something unpleasantly realand repulsive in the familiarity of his companion, in the thought ofassociation with him, He battled with the idea, treated it as aprejudice, analysed it. From head to foot the man wore the wrongclothes in the wrong manner,—boots of a vivid shade of brown, thicksocks without garters, an obviously ready-made suit of grey flannel, ahopeless tie, an unimaginable collar. Even his ready flow of speechsuggested the gifts of the tubthumpers his indomitable persistence, alack of sensibility. He knew his facts, knew all the stock arguments,was brimful of statistics, was argumentative, convincing, in his waysincere. Tallente acknowledged all these things and yet found himselfwondering, with a grim sense of irony, how he could call a man "Comrade"with such finger nails!

"It's given you something to think about, eh?" Miller remarked affably.

Tallente came to himself with a little start.

"I'm afraid my mind was wandering," he confessed.

His companion smiled knowingly. He was conscious of Tallente'saloofness, but determined to break through it if he could. After all,this caste feeling was absurd. He was, in his way, a well-known man, aMember of Parliament, a future Cabinet Minister. He was the equal ofanybody.

"Don't wonder at it! Pleasant neighbours hereabouts, eh?"

Tallente affected to misunderstand. He glanced around at the fewfarmhouses dotted in sheltered places amongst the hills.

"There are very few of them," he answered. "That makes this place allthe more enjoyable for any one who comes for a real rest."

Miller felt that he was suffering defeat. He opened his lips and closedthem again. The jocular reference to Lady Jane remained unspoken.There was something in the calm aloofness of the man by his side whichintimidated even while it annoyed him. Soon they commenced the dropfrom the moorland to where, far away below, the Manor with its lawn andgardens and outbuildings seemed like a child's pleasure palace. Millerleaned forward and pointed downwards.

"There's Dartrey sitting on the terrace," he pointed out. "Dartrey and
Nora Miall. You've heard of her, I expect?"

"I know her by repute, of course," Tallente admitted. "She is a verybrilliant young woman. It will give me great pleasure to meet her."

CHAPTER IX

Tallente took tea that afternoon with his three guests upon the terrace.Before them towered the wood-embosomed cliffs, with here and there greatred gashes of scarred sandstone. Beyond lay the sloping meadow, withits clumps of bracken and grey stone walls, and in the background a morerugged line of rocky cliffs. The sea in the bay flashed and glitteredin the long rays of the afternoon sunshine. The scene wasextraordinarily peaceful. Stephen Dartrey for the first few minutescertainly justified his reputation for taciturnity. He leaned back in along wicker chair, his head resting upon his hand, his thoughtful eyesfixed upon vacancy. No man in those days could have resembled less apopular leader of the people. In appearance he was a typicalaristocrat, and his expression, notwithstanding his fine forehead andthoughtful eyes, was marked with a certain simplicity which in hisyounger days had lured many an inexperienced debater on to ridicule andextinction. In an intensely curious age, Dartrey was still a man overwhose personality controversy raged fiercely. He was a poet, a dreamer,a writer of elegant prose, an orator, an artist. And behind all thesethings there was a flame in the man, a perfect passion for justice, forseeing people in their right places, which had led him from the moreflowery ways into the world of politics. His enemies called him adilettante and a poseur. His friends were led into rhapsodies throughsheer affection. His supporters hailed him as the one man of genius whoheld out the scales of justice before the world.

"Of course," Nora Miall observed, looking up at her host pleasantly, "Ican see what is going to happen. Mr. Dartrey came out here to talk toyou upon most important matters. This place, the beauty of it all, isacting upon him like a soporific. If we don't shake him up presently,he will go away with wonderful mind pictures of your cliffs and sea, andhis whole mission unfulfilled."

"Libellous as usual, Nora," Dartrey murmured, without turning his head."Mr. Tallente is providing me with a few minutes of intense enjoyment.He has assured me that his time is ours. Soon I shall finish my tea,light a cigarette and talk. Just now you may exercise the privilege ofyour sex unhindered and better your own acquaintance with our host."

The girl laughed up into Tallente's face.

"Very likely Mr. Tallente doesn't wish to improve his acquaintance withme," she said.

Tallente hastened to reassure her. Somehow, the presence of these twodid much to soothe the mental irritation which Miller had set up in him.They at least were of the world of understandable things. Miller,slouching in his chair, with a cheap tie-clip showing underneath hiswaistcoat, a bulging mass of sock descending over the top of his boot,rolling a cigarette with yellow-stained, objectionable fingers, stillinvolved him in introspective speculation as to real values in life.

"I have often felt myself unfortunate in not having met you before, Miss
Miall," he said. "Some of your writings have interested me immensely."

"Some of them?" she queried, with a smile.

"Absolute agreement would deny us even the stimulus of an argument," heobserved. "Besides, after all, men find it more difficult to get rid ofprejudices than women."

She leaned forward to help herself to a cigarette and he studied her fora moment. She was a little under medium height, trimly yet almostsquarely built. Her mouth was delightful, humourous and attractive, andher eyes were of the deepest shade of violet, with black, silkeneyelashes. Her voice was the voice of a cultivated woman, and Tallente,as he mostly listened to her light ripple of conversation, realised thatthe charm which was hers by reputation was by no means undeserved. Inmany ways she astonished him. The stories which had been told of her,even written, were incredible, yet her manners were entirely the mannersof one of his own world. The trio—Dartrey, with his silence andoccasional monosyllabic remarks—seemed to draw closer together at everymoment until Miller, obviously chafing at his isolation, thrust himselfinto the conversation.

"Mr. Tallente," he said, taking advantage of a moment's pause to directthe conversation into a different channel, "we kept our word atHellesfield."

"You did," his host acknowledged drily. "You succeeded in cheating meout of the seat. I still don't know why."

He turned as though appealing to Dartrey, and Dartrey accepted thechallenge, swinging a little around in his chair and tapping hiscigarette against the table, preparatory to lighting it.

"You lost Hellesfield, Mr. Tallente, as you would have lost any seatnorth of Bedford," he declared.

"Owing to the influence of the Democrats?"

"Certainly."

"But why is that influence exercised against me?" Tallente demanded. "I
am thankful to have an opportunity of asking you that question, Dartrey.
Surely you would reckon me more of a people's man than these Whigs and
Coalitionists?"

"Very much more," Dartrey agreed. "So much more, Mr. Tallente, that wedon't wish to see you dancing any longer between two stools. We wantyou in our camp. You are the first man, Tallente, whom we have soughtout in this way. We have come at a busy time, under pretext of aholiday, some two hundred miles from London to suggest to you,temporarily deprived of political standing, that you join us."

"That temporary deprivation," Tallente murmured, "being due to yourefforts."

"Precisely!"

"And the alternative?"

"Those who are not with us are against us," Dartrey declared. "If youpersist in remaining the doubtful factor in politics, it is our businessto see that you have no definite status there."

Tallente laughed a little cynically.

"Your methods are at least modern," he observed. "You invite a man tojoin your party, and if he refuses you threaten him with politicalextinction."

"Why not?" Dartrey asked wonderingly. "You do not pause to consider thematter. Government is meant for the million. Where the individualmight impede good government, common sense calls for his ostracism. Nonation has been more slow to realise this than England. A code of orderand morals established two thousand years ago has been accepted by themas incapable of modification or improvement. To take a single instance.Supposing De Valera had been shot the first day he talked treasonagainst the Empire, your troubles with Ireland would have been immenselyminimised. And mark this, for it is the crux of the whole matter, thepeople of Ireland would have attained what they wanted much sooner. Youare not one of those, Andrew Tallente, who refuse to see the writing onthe wall. You know that in one form or another in this country thedemocracy must rule. They felt the flame of inspiration when war cameand they helped to win the war. What was their reward? The opulentportion of them were saddled with an enormous income tax and high pricesof living through bad legislation, which made life a burden. The morepoverty-stricken suffered sympathetically in exactly the same way. Wewon the war and we lost the peace. We fastened upon the shoulders ofthe deserving, the wage-earning portion of the community, a burdenwhich their shoulders could never carry a burden which, had we lost thewar instead of winning it, would have led promptly to a revolution and ameasure at least of freedom."

"There is so much of truth in what you say," Tallente declared, "that Iam going to speak to you frankly, even though my frankness seems brutal.I am going to speak about your friend Miller here. Throughout the war,Miller was a pacifist. He was dead against killing Germans. He was allfor a peace at any price."

"Steady on," Miller interrupted, suddenly sitting up in his chair.
"Look here, Tallente—"

"Be quiet until I have finished," Tallente went on. "He was concernedin no end of intrigue with Austrian and German Socialists forembarrassing the Government and bringing the war to an end. I shouldsay that but for the fact that our Government at the time was wholly oneof compromise, and was leaning largely upon the Labour vote, he wouldhave been impeached for high treason."

Miller, who had been busy rolling a cigarette, lit it with ostentatiouscarelessness.

"And what of all this?" he demanded.

"Nothing," Tallente replied, "except that it seems a strange thing tofind you now associated with a party who threaten me openly withpolitical extinction unless I choose to join them. I call thisjunkerdom, not socialism."

"No man's principles can remain stable in an unstable world," Millerpronounced. "I still detest force and compulsion of every sort, but Irecognise its necessity in our present civil life far more than I did ina war which was, after all, a war of politicians."

Nora Miall leaned over from her chair and laid her hand on Tallente'sarm. After Miller's raucous tones, her voice sounded almost like music.

"Mr. Tallente," she said, "I can understand your feeling aggrieved.You are not a man whom it is easy to threaten, but remember that afterall we must go on our fixed way towards the appointed goal.And—consider—isn't the upraised rod for your good? Your place is withus—indeed it is. I fancy that Stephen here forgets that you are notyet fully acquainted with our real principles and aims. A politicalparty cannot be judged from the platform. The views expressed therehave to be largely governed by the character of the audience. It is tothe textbooks of our creed, Dartrey's textbooks, that you should turn."

"I have read your views on certain social matters, Miss Miall," Tallenteobserved, turning towards her.

She laughed understandingly. Her eyes twinkled as she looked at him.

"And thoroughly disapproved them, of course! But you know, Mr.Tallente, we are out not to reconstruct Society but to lay the steppingstones for a reconstruction. That is all, I suppose, that any singlegeneration could accomplish. The views which I have advocated in theUniversal Review are the views which will be accepted as a matter ofcourse in fifty years' time. To-day they seem crude and unmoral,chiefly because the casual reader, especially the British reader, dwellsso much upon external effects and thinks so little of the soul that liesbelow. Even you, Mr. Tallente, with your passion for order and yourdistrust of all change in established things, can scarcely consider ourmarriage laws an entire success?"

Tallente winced a little and Dartrey hastily intervened.

"We want you to remember this," he said. "The principles which weadvocate are condemned before they are considered by men of inheritedprinciples and academic education such as yourself, because you haveassociated them always with the disciples of anarchy, bolshevism, andother diseased rituals. You have never stooped to separate the goodfrom the bad. The person who dares to tamper with the laws of KingAlfred stands before you prejudged. Granted that our doctrines areextreme, are we—let me be personal and say am I—the class of man whomyou have associated with these doctrines? We Democrats have gainedgreat power during the last ten years. We have thrust our influencedeep into the hearts of those great, sinister bodies, the trades unions.There is no one except ourselves who realises our numerical andpotential strength. We could have created a revolution in this countryat any time since the Premier's first gloomy speech in the House ofCommons after the signing of peace, had we chosen. I can assure youthat we haven't the least fancy for marching through the streets withred flags and letting loose the diseased end of our community upon thepalaces and public buildings of London. We are Democrats orRepublicans, whichever you choose to call us, who desire to conquer withthe brain, as we shall conquer, and where we recognise a man of geniuslike yourself, who must be for us or against us, if we cannot converthim then we must see that politically he ceases to count."

Robert came out and whispered in his master's ear. Tallente turned tohis guests.

"I cannot offer you dinner," he said, "but my servant assures me that hecan provide a cold supper. Will you stay? I think that you, Dartrey,would enjoy the view from some of my lookouts."

"I accept your invitation," Dartrey replied eagerly. "I have beensitting here, longing for the chance to watch the sunset from behindyour wood."

"It will be delightful," Nora murmured. "I want to go down to the grasspier."

Miller too accepted, a little ungraciously. The little party wanderedoff down the path which led to the seashore. Miller detained his hostfor a moment at one of the corners.

"By the by, Tallente," he asked, "what about the disappearance of
Palliser?"

"He has disappeared," Tallente answered calmly. "That is all I knowabout it."

Miller stood with his hands in his pockets, gnawing the end of hismoustache, gazing covertly at the man who stood waiting for him to passon. Tallente's face was immovable.

"Disappeared? Do you mean to say that you don't know where he is?"

"I have no idea."

Again there was a moment's silence. Then Miller leaned a littleforward. "Look here, Tallente," he began—Nora turned round andsuddenly beckoned her host to her.

"Come quickly," she begged. "I can do nothing with Mr. Dartrey. Hehas just decided that our whole scheme of life is absurd, that politicsand power are shadows, and that work for others is lunacy. All that hewants is your cottage, a fishing rod and a few books."

"Nothing else?" Tallente asked, smiling.

There was a momentary cloud upon her face.

"Nothing else in the world," she answered, her eyes fixed upon thefigure of the man who was leaning now over the grey stone wall, gazingseaward.

During the service of the meal, on the terrace afterwards, and even whenthey strolled down to the edge of the cliff to see the great yellow mooncome up from behind the hills, scarcely a word was spoken on politicalsubjects. Dartrey was an Oxford man of Tallente's own college, and,although several years his senior, they discovered many mutualacquaintances and indulged in reminiscences which seemed to affordpleasure to both. Then they drifted into literature, and Tallente foundhimself amazed at the knowledge of the man whose whole life was supposedto have been given to his labours for the people. Dartrey explained hisintimate acquaintance with certain modern writings and his marvellousfamiliarity with many of the classics, as he and his host walked downtogether along one of the narrow paths. "You see, Tallente," he said,"I have never been a practical politician. I dare say that accounts formy rather peculiar position to-day. I have evolved a whole series ofsocial laws by which I maintain that the people should be governed, andthose laws have been accepted wherever socialism flourishes. They tookme some years of my earlier life to elaborate, some years of studybefore I set pen to paper, some years of my later life to place beforethe world, and there my task practically ended. There is nothing freshto say about these great human problems. They are there for any man towhom daylight comes, to see. They are all inevitably bound up with thefuture of our race, but there is no need to dig further. My work isdone."

"How can you say that," Tallente argued, "when day by day your power inthe country grows, when everything points to you as the next Premier?"

"Precisely," Dartrey replied quietly. "That is why I am here. The headof the Democratic Party has a right to the government of this country,but you know, at this point I have a very sad confession to make. I amthe worst politician who ever sat in the House. I am a poor debater, aworse strategist. Again, Tallente, that is why you and I at this momentwalk together through your beautiful grounds and watch the rim of thatyellow moon. It is yourself we want."

Tallente felt the thrill of the moment, felt the sincerity of the manwhose hand pressed gently upon his arm.

"If you are our man, Tallente," his visitor continued, "if you see eyeto eye with us as to the great Things, if you can cast away what remainsto you of class and hereditary prejudice and throw in your lot withours, there is no office of the State which you may not hope to occupy.I had not meant to appeal to your ambitions. I do so now onlygenerally. As a rule, every man connected with a revolution thinkshimself able to govern the State. That is not so with us. A man mayhave the genius for seeing the truth, the genius even for engraving thelaws which should govern the world upon tablets of stone, without havingthe capacity for government."

"But do you mean to say," Tallente asked, "that when Horlock goes down,as go down he must within the next few months, you are not prepared totake his place?"

"I should never accept the task of forming a government," Dartrey saidquietly, "unless I am absolutely driven to do so. I have shown thetruth to the world. I have shown to the people whom I love theirdestiny, but I have not the gifts to lead them. I am asking you,Tallente, to join us, to enter Parliament as one of our party and tolead for us in the House of Commons."

"Yours is the offer of a prince," Tallente replied, after a brief,nervous pause. "If I hesitate, you must remember all that it means forme."

Dartrey smiled.

"Now, my friend," he said, "look me in the face and answer me thisquestion. You know little of us Democrats as a party. You see nothingbut a hotchpotch of strange people, struggling and striving to attaindefinite form. Naturally you are full of prejudices. Yet consider yourown political position. I am not here to make capital out of a man'sdisappointment in his friends, but has your great patron used you well?Horlock offers you a grudging and belated place in his Cabinet. Whatdid he say to you when you came hack from Hellesfield?" Tallente wassilent. There was, in fact, no answer which he could make. "I do notwish to dwell on that," Dartrey went on. "Ingratitude is the naturalsequence of the distorted political ideals which we are out to destroy.You should be in the frame of mind, Tallente, to see things clearly.You must realise the rotten condition of the political party to whichHorlock belongs—the Coalitionists, the Whip, or whatever they like tocall themselves. The government of this country since the war has beena farce and a mockery. We are dropping behind in the world's race.Labour fattens with sops, develops a spirit of greed and productionlanguishes. You know why. Labour would toil for its country, Labourcan feel patriotism with the best, but Labour hates to toil under theearth, upon the earth, and in the factories of the world for the sake ofthe profiteer. This is the national spirit, that jealousy, thatslackness, which the last ten years has developed. There is a newLittle Englander abroad and he speaks with the voice of Labour. It isour task to find the soul of the people. And I have come to you foryour aid."

Tallente looked for a moment down to the bay and listened to the soundof the incoming tide breaking upon the rocks. Dimmer now, but even moremajestic in the twilight, the great, immovable cliffs towered up to thesky. An owl floated up from the grove of trees beneath and with astrange cry circled round for a moment to drop on to the lawn, ashapeless, solemn mass of feathers. At the back of the hills a littlerim of gold, no wider than a wedding ring, announced the rising of themoon. He felt a touch upon his sleeve, a very sweet, persuasive voicein his ear. Nora had left Miller in the background and was standing byhis side.

"I heard Mr. Dartrey's last words," she said. "Can you refuse such anappeal in such a spot? You turn away to think, turn to the quietness ofall these dreaming voices. Believe me, if there is a soul beneath them,it is the same soul which has inspired our creed. You yourself havecome here full of bitterness, Andrew Tallente, because it seemed to youthat there was no place for you amongst the prophets of democracy. Itwas you yourself, in a moment of passion, perhaps, who said thatdemocracy, as typified in existing political parties, was soulless. Youwere right. Hasn't Mr. Dartrey just told you so and doesn't that makeour task the clearer? It brings before us those wonderful days writtenabout in the Old Testament—the people must be led into the light."

Her voice had become almost part of the music of the evening. She waslooking up at him, her beautiful eyes aglow. Dartrey, a yard or twooff, his thoughtful face paler than ever in the faint light, waslistening with joyous approval. In the background, Miller, with hishands in his pockets, was smoking mechanically the cigarette which hehad just rolled and lit. The thrill of a great moment brought toTallente a feeling of almost strange exaltation.

"I am your man, Dartrey," he promised. "I will do what I can."

CHAPTER X

The Right Honourable John Augustus Horlock, Prime Minister of Englandthrough a most amazing fluke, received Tallente, a few days later, withthe air of one desiring to show as much graciousness as possible to adiscomfited follower. He extended two fingers and indicated anuncomfortable chair.

"Well, well, Tallente," he said, "sorry I wasn't in town when you passedthrough from the north. Bad business, that Hellesfield affair."

"It was a very bad business indeed," Tallente agreed, "chiefly becauseit shows that our agents there must be utterly incapable."

The Prime Minister coughed.

"You think so, Tallente, eh? Now their point of view is that you letMiller make all the running, let him make his points and never got ananswer in—never got a grip on the people, eh?"

"That may do for the official explanation," Tallente replied coldly,"but as a plain statement of facts it is entirely beside the mark. Ifyou will forgive my saying so, sir, it has been one of yourcharacteristics in life, born, without doubt," he added, with a littlebow, "of your indomitable courage, to minimise difficulties and dangersof a certain type. You did not sympathise with me in my defeat atHellesfield because you underrated, as you always have underrated, thevastly growing strength and dangerous popularity of the party into whosehands the government of this country will shortly pass."

Mr. Horlock frowned portentously. This was not at all the way in whichhe should have been addressed by an unsuccessful follower. Butunderneath that frown was anxiety.

"You refer to the Democrats?"

"Naturally."

"Do I understand you to attribute your defeat, then, to the tactics ofthe Democratic Party?"

"It is no question of supposition," Tallente replied. "It is acertainty."

"You believe that they have a greater hold upon the country than weimagine, then?"

"I am sure of it," was the confident answer. "They occupy a position noother political party has aimed at occupying in the history of thiscountry. They aid and support themselves by means of direct and logicalpropaganda, carried to the very heart and understanding of theirpossible supporters. Their methods are absolutely unique and personallyI am convinced that it is their destiny to bring into one composite bodywhat has been erroneously termed the Labour vote."

Horlock smiled indulgently. He preferred to assume a confidence whichhe could not wholly feel.

"I am glad to hear your opinion, Tallente," he said. "I have toremember, however, that you are still smarting under a defeat inflictedby these people. What I cannot altogether understand is this: How wasit that you were entirely deprived of their support at Hellesfield. Youyourself are supposed to be practically a Socialist, at any rate fromthe point of view of the staider of my party. Yet these fellows down atHellesfield preferred to support Bloxham, who twenty years ago wouldhave been called a Tory."

"I can quite understand your being puzzled at that," Tallenteacknowledged. "I was myself at first. Since then I have received anexplanation."

"Well, well," Mr. Horlock interjected, with a return of his officialgenial manner, "we'll let sleeping dogs lie. Have you made any plans,Tallente?"

"A week ago I thought of going to Samoa," was the grim reply. "Youdon't want me, the country didn't seem to want me. I have worked forother people for thirty years. I rather thought of resting, living thelife of a lotus eater for a time."

"An extremist as ever," the Prime Minister remarked tolerantly. "Even apolitician who has worked as hard as you have can find many pleasurablepaths in life open to him in this country. However, the necessity forsuch an extreme course of action on your part is done away with. I amvery pleased to be able to tell you that the affair concerning which Ihave been in communication with your secretary for the last two monthshas taken an unexpectedly favourable turn."

"What the mischief do you mean?" Tallente enquired, puzzled.

"I mean," Mr. Horlock announced, with a friendly smile, "that soonerthan be deprived of your valuable services, His Majesty has consentedthat you should go to the Upper House. You will be offered a peeragewithin the next fortnight."

Tallente stared at the speaker as though he had suddenly been bereft ofhis senses.

"What on earth are you talking about, sir?" he demanded.

Mr. Horlock somewhat resented his visitor's tone.

"Surely my statement was sufficiently explicit?" he said, a littlestiffly. "The peerage concerning which at first, I admit, I sawdifficulties, is yours. You can, without doubt, be of great service tous in the Upper House and—"

"But I'd sooner turn shopkeeper!" Tallente interrupted. "If Iunderstand that it is your intention to offer me a peerage, let us haveno misunderstanding about the matter. It is refused, absolutely andfinally."

The Prime Minister stared at his visitor for a moment in amazement.Then he unlocked a drawer in his desk, drew out several letters andthrew them over to Tallente.

"And will you tell me what the devil you mean by authorising yoursecretary to write these letters?" he demanded.

Tallente picked them up, read them through and gasped.

"Written by Palliser, aren't they?" Mr. Horlock demanded.

"Without a doubt," Tallente acknowledged. "The amazing thing, however,is that they are entirely unauthorised. The subject has never even beendiscussed between Palliser and myself. I am exceedingly sorry, sir," hewent on, "that you should have been misled in this fashion, but I canonly give you my word of honour that these letters are entirely andabsolutely unauthorised."

"God bless my soul!" the Prime Minister exclaimed. "Where is Palliser?
Better telephone."

"Palliser left my service a week or more ago," Tallente replied. "Heleft it at a moment's notice, in consequence of a personal disagreementconcerning which I beg that you will ask no questions I can only assureyou that it was not political. Since he left no word has been heard ofhim. The papers, even, have been making capital of his disappearance."

"It is the most extraordinary thing I ever heard in my life," Horlockdeclared, a little irritably. "Why, I've spent hours of my time tryingto get this matter through."

"Dealing seriously with Palliser, thinking that he represented me inthis matter?"

"Without a doubt."

"Will you lend me the letters?" Tallente asked.

Mr. Horlock threw them across the table.

"Here they are. My secretary wrote twice to Palliser last week andreceived no reply. That is why I sent you a telegram."

"I was on my way to see you, anyway," Tallente observed. "I thoughtthat you were going to offer me a seat."

Mr. Horlock shook his head.

"We simply haven't a safe one," he confided, "and there isn't a soul Icould ask to give up, especially, to speak plainly, for you, Tallente.They look upon you as dangerous, and although it would have been a ninedays' wonder, most of my people would have been relieved to have heardof your going to the Upper House."

"I see," Tallente murmured. "In plain words, you've no use for me inthe Cabinet?"

"My dear fellow," the Prime Minister expostulated, "you have no right totalk like that. I offered you a post of great responsibility and a seatwhich we believed to be perfectly safe. You lost the election, bringinga considerable amount of discredit, if you will forgive my saying so,upon the Government. What more can I do?"

Tallente was watching the speaker curiously. He had thought over thisinterview all the way up on the train, thought it out on very differentlines.

"Nothing, I suppose," he admitted, "yet there's a certain risk aboutdropping me, isn't there? You might drive me into the arms of theenemy."

"What, the old Whig lot? Not a chance! I know you too well for that."

"No, the Democrats."

Horlock moved restlessly in his chair. He was eyeing his visitorsteadfastly.

"What, the people who have just voted solidly against you?"

"Hasn't it occurred to you that that might have been politicalstrategy?" Tallente suggested. "They might have maneuvered for the verysituation which has arisen—that is, if I am really worth anything toanybody."

Horlock shook his head.

"Oil and water won't mix, Tallente, and you don't belong to that crowd.All the same," he confessed, "I shouldn't like you with them. I cannotbelieve that such a thing would ever come to pass, but the thought isn'ta pleasant one."

"Now that you have made up your mind that I don't want to go to theHouse of Lords and wouldn't under any possible consideration," Tallenteasked, "have you anything else to suggest?"

Mr. Horlock was a little annoyed. He considered that he had shownremarkable patience with a somewhat troublesome visitor.

"Tallente," he said, "it is of no use your being unreasonable. You hadyour chance at Hellesfield and you lost it; your chance in my Cabinetand lost that too. You know for yourself how many rising politicians Ihave to satisfy. You'll be back again with us before long, of course,but for the present you must be content to take a rest. We can make useof you on the platform and there are always the reviews."

"I see," Tallente murmured.

"The fact is," his host concluded, as his fingers strayed towards thedismissal bell, "you made rather a mistake, Tallente, years ago, indabbling at all with the Labour Party. At first, I must admit that Iwas glad. I felt that you created, as it were, a link between myGovernment and a very troublesome Opposition. To-day things havealtered. Labour has shown its hand and it demands what no sane mancould give. We've finished with compromise. We have to fight Socialismor go under."

Tallente nodded.

"One moment," he begged, as the Prime Minister's forefinger rested uponthe button of the bell. "Now may I tell you just why I came to pay youthis visit?"

"If there is anything more left to be said," Mr. Horlock conceded, withan air of exaggerated patience.

"There is just this," Tallente declared. "If you had had a seat tooffer me or a post in your Cabinet, I should have been compelled todecline it, just as I have declined that ridiculous offer of a peerage.I have consented to lead the Democratic Party in the House of Commons."

The Prime Minister's fingers slipped slowly from the knob of the bell.He was a person of studied deportment. A journalist who had oncewritten of his courtly manners had found himself before long thesub-editor of a Government journal. At that moment he was possessed ofneither manners nor presence. He sat gazing at Tallente with his mouthopen. The latter rose to his feet.

"I ask you to believe, sir," he said, "that the step which I am takingis in no way due to my feeling of pique or dissatisfaction with yourtreatment. I go where I think I can do the best work for my country andemploy such gifts as I have to their best advantage."

"But you are out to ruin the country!" Horlock faltered. "The Democratsare Socialists."

"From one point of view," Tallente rejoined, "every Christian is aSocialist. The term means nothing. The programme of my new party aimsat the destruction of all artificial barriers which make prosperity easyto one and difficult to another. It aims not only at the abolition ofgreat fortunes and trusts, but at the abolition of the conditions whichmake them possible. It embraces a scheme for national service and areasonable imperialism. It has a sane programme, and that is more thanany Government which has been in office since the war has had."

Mr. Horlock rose to his feet.

"Tallente," he pronounced, "you are a traitor to your class and to yourcountry."

He struck the bell viciously. His visitor turned away with a faintsmile.

"Don't annoy me," he begged, "or I may some day have to send you to the
House of Lords!"

CHAPTER XI

Tallente, obeying an urgent telephone message, made his way toClaridge's and sent his card up to his wife. Her maid came down andinvited him to her suite, an invitation which he promptly declined. Inabout a quarter of an hour she descended to the lounge, dressed for thestreet. She showed no signs of confusion or nervousness at his visit.She was hard and cold and fair, with a fraudulent smile upon her lips,dressed to perfection, her maid hovering in the background with aPekinese under one arm and a jewel case in her other hand.

"Thank goodness," she said, as she fluttered into a chair by his side,"that you hate scenes even more than I do! You have the air of a manwho has found out no end of disagreeable things!"

"You are observant," he answered drily. "I have just come from the
Prime Minister."

"Well?"

"I find that Palliser has been conducting a regular conspiracy behind myback, with reference to this wretched peerage. He has practicallyforged my name and has placed me in a most humiliating position. You, Isuppose, were his instigator in this matter?"

"I suppose I was," she admitted.

"What was to be his reward—his ulterior reward, I mean?"

"I promised him twenty thousand pounds," she answered, with cold fury."It appears that I overvalued your importance to your party. Tonyapparently did the same. He thought that you had only to intimate yourreadiness to accept a peerage and the thing would be arranged. It seemsthat we were wrong."

"You were doubly wrong," he replied. "In the first place, there weredifficulties, and in the second, nothing would have induced me to acceptsuch a humiliating offer."

"How did you find this out?" she enquired.

"The Prime Minister offered me the peerage less than an hour ago," heanswered. "I need not say that I unhesitatingly refused it."

Stella ceased buttoning her gloves. There was a cold glitter in hereyes.

"You refused it?"

"Of course!"

She was silent for a moment.

"Andrew," she said, "you have scarcely kept your bargain with me."

"I am not prepared to admit that," he replied. "You had a veryconsiderable social position at the time when I was in office. It wasup to you to make that good."

"I am tired of political society," she answered. "It isn't the realthing. Now you are out of Parliament, though, even that has vanished.Andrew!"

"Well?"

She leaned a little towards him. She began to regret that he had notaccepted her invitation to visit her in her suite. Years ago she hadbeen able to bend him sometimes to her will. Why should she take it forgranted that she had lost her power? Here, however, even persuasionswere difficult. He sat upon a straight, high-backed chair by her sideand his face seemed as though it were carved out of stone.

"You have always declined, Andrew, to make very much use of my money,"she said. "Could we not make a bargain now? I will give you a hundredthousand pounds and settle five million dollars on the holder of thetitle forever, if you will accept this peerage. I wouldn't mind apresent to the party funds, either, if that helped matters."

Tallente shook his head.

"I am sorry for your disappointment," he said, "but nothing would induceme to accept a seat in the Upper House. I have other plans."

"They could be changed."

"Impossible!"

"You might be forced to change them."

"By whom?"

The smile maddened her. She had meant to be subtle. She becameflamboyant. She leaned forward in her chair.

"What have you done with Tony Palliser?" she demanded.

Tallente remained absolutely unruffled. He had been expecting somethingof this sort. The only wonder was that it had been delayed so long.

"A threat?" he asked pleasantly.

"Call it what you like. Men don't disappear like that. What did you dowith him?"

"What do you think he deserved?"

She bit her lip.

"I think you are the most detestable human being who ever breathed," shefaltered. "Supposing I go to the police?"

"Don't be melodramatic," he begged. "In the first place, what have youto tell? In the second place, in this country, at any rate, a wifecannot give evidence against her husband."

"You admit that something has happened?" she asked eagerly.

"I admit nothing," he replied, "except that Anthony Palliser hasdisappeared under circumstances which you and I know about, that he hasforged my name and entered into a disgraceful conspiracy with you, andthat he has stolen from my wife a political document of great importanceto me."

"I knew nothing about the political document," she said quickly.

"Possibly not," he agreed. "Still, the fact remains that Tony was athoroughly bad lot. I find myself able to regard the possibility of anaccident having happened to him with equanimity. Have you anythingfurther to say?"

She sat looking down on the floor for several minutes. She hadprobably, Tallente decided as he watched her, some way of suffering insecret, all the more terrible because of its repression. When shelooked up, her face seemed pinched and older. Her voice, however, wassteady.

"Let us have an understanding," she said. "You do not desire my returnto Martinhoe?"

"I do not," he agreed.

"And what about Cheverton House here?"

"I have nothing to do with it," he replied. "You persuaded me to allowyou to take it and I have lived with you there. I never pretended,however, to be able to contribute to its upkeep. You can live there, ifyou choose, or wherever else you please."

"Alone?"

"It would be more reputable."

"You mean that you will not return there?"

"I do mean that."

His cold firmness daunted her. She was, besides, at a disadvantage; shehad no idea how much he knew.

"I can make you come back to me if I choose," she threatened.

"The attempt would cost you a great deal of money," he told her, "andthe result would be the same. Frankly, Stella," he went on, striving toimpart a note of friendliness into his tone, "we made a bad bargain andit is no use clinging to the impossible. I have tried to keep my end ofit. Technically I have kept it. If I have failed in other ways, I amvery sorry. The whole thing was a mistake. We have been frank aboutit more than once, so we may just as well be frank about it now. Imarried for money and you for position. I have not found your money anyparticular advantage, and I have realised that as a man gets on in lifethere are other and more vital things which he misses though making sucha bargain. You are not satisfied with your position, and perhaps you,too, have something of the same feeling that I have. You are your ownmistress and you are a very rich woman, and in whichever direction youmay decide to seek for a larger measure of content, you will not findme in the Way."

"I am not sentimental," she said coldly. "I know what I want and I amnot afraid to own it. I want to be a Peeress."

"In that respect I am unable to help you," he replied. "And in case Ihave not made myself sufficiently clear upon the subject, let me tellyou that I deeply resent the plot by which you endeavoured to foist suchan indignity upon me."

"This is your last word?" she demanded.

"Absolutely!"

"Then I demand that you set me free."

He was a little staggered.

"How on earth can I do that?"

"You can allow me to divorce you."

"And spoil any chance I might have of reentering political life," heremarked quietly.

"I have no further interest in your political life," she retorted.

He looked at her steadfastly.

"There is another way," he suggested. "I might divorce you."

Her eyes fell before the steely light in his. She did her best,however, to keep her voice steady.

"That would not suit me," she admitted. "I could not be received atCourt, and there are other social penalties which I am not inclined toface. In the case of a disagreement like ours, if the man realises hisduty, it is he who is willing to bear the sacrifice."

"Under some circumstances, yes," he agreed. "In our case, however,there is a certain consideration upon which I have forborne to touch—"

It was as much her anger as anything else which induced her lack ofself-control. She gave a little cry.

"Andrew, you are detestable!" she exclaimed. "Let us end thisconversation. You have said all that you wish to say?"

"Everything."

"Please go away, then," she begged. "I am expecting visitors. I thinkthat we understand each other."

He rose to his feet.

"I am sorry for our failure, Stella," he said. "Pray do not hesitate towrite to me at any time if my advice or assistance can be of service."

He passed down the lounge, more crowded now than when he had entered. Avery fashionably dressed young woman, one of a smart tea party, leanedback in her chair as he passed and held out her hand.

"And how does town seem, Mr. Tallente, after your sylvan solitude?" sheasked.

Tallente for a moment was almost at a loss. Then a glance into herreally very wonderful eyes, and the curve of her lips as she smiledconvinced him of the truth which he had at first discarded.

"Miss Miall!" he exclaimed.

"Please don't look so surprised," she laughed. "I suppose you think Ihave no right to be frivolling in these very serious times, but I amafraid I am rather an offender when the humour takes me. You kept yourword to Mr. Dartrey, I see?"

Tallente nodded.

"I came to town yesterday."

"I must hear all the news, please," she insisted. "Will you come andsee me to-morrow afternoon? I share a flat with another girl inWestminster—Number 13, Brown Square."

"I shall be delighted," he answered. "I think your hostess wants tospeak to me. She is an old friend of my aunt."

He moved on a few steps and bowed over the thin, over-bejewelled fingersof the Countess of Clanarton, an old lady whose vogue still remainedunchallenged, although the publication of her memoirs had very nearlysent a highly respected publisher into prison.

"Andrew," she exclaimed, "we are all so distressed about you! How daredyou lose your election! You know my little fire-eating friend, I see.I keep in with her because when the revolution comes she is going tosave me from the guillotine, aren't you, Nora?"

"My revolution won't have anything to do with guillotines," the girllaughed back, "and if you really want to have a powerful friend atcourt, pin your faith on Mr. Tallente."

Lady Clanarton shook her head.

"I have known Andrew, my dear, since he was in his cradle," she said."I have heard him spout Socialism, and I know he has written aboutrevolutions, but, believe me, he's a good old-fashioned Whig at heart.He'll never carry the red flag. I see your wife has bought theMaharajaim of Sapong's pearls, Andrew. Do you think she'd leave them tome if I were to call on her?"

"Why not ask her?" Tallente suggested. "She is over there."

"Dear me, so she is!" she exclaimed. "How smart, too! I thought whenshe came in she must be some one not quite respectable, she was sowell-dressed. Going, Andrew? Well, come and see me before you returnto the country. And I wouldn't go and have tea with that little hussy,if I were you. She'll burn the good old-fashioned principles out ofyou, if anything could."

"Not later than five, please," Nora called out. "You shall havemuffins, if I can get them."

"She's got her eye on you," the old lady chuckled. "Most dangerouschild in London, they all tell me. You're warned, Andrew."

He smiled as he raised her fingers to his lips.

"Is my danger political or otherwise?" he whispered.

"Otherwise, I should think," was the prompt retort. "You are tooBritish to change our politics, but thank goodness infidelity is one ofthe cosmopolitan virtues. You were never the man to marry aplaster-cast type of wife, Andrew, for all her millions. I could havedone better for you than that. What's this they are telling me aboutTony Palliser?"

Tallente stiffened a little.

"A good many people seem to be talking about Tony Palliser," heobserved.

"You shouldn't have let your wife make such an idiot of herself withhim—lunching and dining and theatring all the time. And now they sayhe has disappeared. Poor little man! What have you done to him,Andrew?"

Tallente sighed.

"I can see that I shall have to take you into my confidence," hemurmured.

"You needn't tell me a single word, because I shouldn't believe you ifyou did. Are you staying here with your wife?"

"No," Tallente answered. "I am back at my old rooms in Charges Street."

The old lady patted him on the arm and dismissed him.

"You see, I've found out all I wanted to know!" she chuckled.

CHAPTER XII

Dartrey had been called unexpectedly to the north, to a great Labourconference, and Tallente, waiting for his return, promised within thenext forty-eight hours, found himself rather at a loose end. He avoidedthe club, where he would have been likely to meet his late politicalassociates, and spent the morning after his visit to the Prime Ministerstrolling around the Park, paying visits to his tailor and hosier, andlunched by himself a little sadly in a fashionable restaurant. At fiveo'clock he found his way to Westminster and discovered Nora Miall'sflat. A busy young person in pince-nez and a long overall, whoannounced herself as Miss Miall's secretary, was in the act of showingout James Miller as he rang the bell. "Any news?" the latter asked,after Tallente had found it impossible to avoid shaking hands. "I amwaiting for Mr. Dartrey's return. No, there is no particular news that Iknow of."

"Dartrey's had to go north for a few days," Miller confided officiously."I ought to have gone too, but some one had to stay and look afterthings in the House. Rather a nuisance his being called away just now."

Tallente preserved a noncommittal silence. Miller rolled a cigarettehastily, took up his unwrapped umbrella and an ill-brushed bowler hat.

"Well, I must be going," he concluded. "If there is anything I can dofor you during the chief's absence, look me up, Mr. Tallente. It's allthe same, you know—Dartrey or me—Demos House in Parliament Street, orthe House. You haven't forgotten your way there yet, I expect?"

With which parting shaft Mr. James Miller departed, and the secretary,
Opening the door of Nora's sitting room, ushered Tallente in.

"Mr. Tallente," she announced, with a subdued smile, "fresh from a mostengaging but rather one-sided conversation with Mr. Miller."

Nora was evidently neither attired nor equipped this afternoon for a teaparty at Claridge's. She wore a dark blue princess frock, buttonedright up to the throat. Her hair was brushed straight back from herhead, revealing a little more completely her finely shaped forehead.She was seated before a round table covered with papers, and Tallentefancied, even as he crossed the threshold, that there was an electricatmosphere in the little apartment, an impression which the smoulderingfire in her eyes, as she glanced up, confirmed. The change in herexpression, however, as she recognised her visitor, was instantaneous.A delightful smile of welcome chased away the sombreness of her face.

"My dear man," she exclaimed, "come and sit down and help me to forgetthat annoying person who has just gone out!"

Tallente smiled.

"Miller is not one of your favorites, then?"

"Isn't he the most impossible person who ever breathed." she replied."He was a conscientious objector during the war, a sex fanaticsince—Mr. Dartrey had to use all his influence to keep him out ofprison for writing those scurrulous articles in the Comet—and I thinkhe is one of the smallest-minded, most untrustworthy persons I ever met.For some reason or other, Stephen Dartrey believes in him. He has awonderful talent for organization and a good deal of influence with thetrades unions.—By the by, it's all right about the muffins."

She rang the bell and ordered tea. Tallente glanced for a moment aboutthe room. The four walls were lined with well-filled bookcases, but themural decorations consisted—except for one wonderful nude figure, copyof a well-known Rodin—of statistical charts and shaded maps. Therewere only two signs of feminine occupation: an immense bowl of redroses, rising with strange effect from the sea of manuscript, pamphlets,and volumes of reference, and a wide, luxurious couch, drawn up to thewindow, through which the tops of a little clump of lime trees were justvisible. As she turned back to him, he noticed with more completeappreciation the lines of her ample but graceful figure, the moreremarkable because she was neither tall nor slim.

"So that was your wife at Claridge's yesterday afternoon?" she remarked,a little abruptly.

He assented in silence. Her eyes sought his speculatively.

"I know that Lady Clanarton is a terrible gossip," she went on. "Wasshe telling me the truth when she said that your married life was not anentire success?"

"She was telling you the truth," Tallente admitted.

"I like to know everything," she suggested quietly. "You must rememberthat we shall probably become intimates."

"I did my wife the injustice of marrying her for money," Tallenteexplained. "She married me because she thought that I could provide herwith a social position such as she desired. Our marriage was a doublefailure. I found no opportunity of making use of her money, and she wasdiscontented with the value she received for it. We have within thelast few days agreed to separate. Now you know everything," he added,with a little smile, "and curiously enough, considering the brevity ofour acquaintance, you know it before anybody else in the world exceptone person."

She smiled.

"I like to know everything about the people I am interested in," sheadmitted. "Besides, your story sounds so quaint. It seems to belong,somehow or other, to the days of Anthony Trollope and Jane Austen. Isuppose that is because I always feel that I am living a little way inthe future."

Tea was brought in, and a place cleared for the tray upon a crowdedtable. Afterwards she lit a cigarette and threw herself upon thelounge.

"Turn your chair around towards me," she invited. "This is the hour Ilike best of any during the day. Do you see what a beautiful view Ihave of the Houses of Parliament? And there across the river, behindthat mist, the cesspool begins. Sometimes I lie here and think. I seeright into Bermondsey and Rotherhithe and all those places and think outthe lives of the people as they are being lived. Then I look throughthose wonderful windows there—how they glitter in the sunshine, don'tthey!—and I think I hear the men speak whom they have sent to pleadtheir cause. Some Demosthenes from Tower Hill exhausts himself withphrase-making, shouts himself into a perspiration, drawing lurid,pictures of hideous and apparent wrongs, and a hundred or sowell-dressed legislators whisper behind the palms of their hands, maketheir plans for the evening and trot into their appointed lobbies likesheep when the division bell rings. It is the most tragical epitome ofinadequacy the world has ever known."

"Have you Democrats any fresh inspiration, then?" he asked.

"Of course we have," she rapped out sharply. "It isn't like you to asksuch a question. The principles for which we stand never existedbefore, except academically. No party has ever been able to preach themwithin the realm of practical politics, because no party has beencomprehensive enough. The Labour Party, as it was understood ten yearsago, was a pitiful conglomeration of selfish atoms without the faintestidea of coordination. It is for the souls of the people we stand, weDemocrats, whether they belong to trades unions or not, whether theytill the fields or sweat in the factories, whether they bend over a deskor go back and forth across the sea, whether they live in small housesor large, whether they belong to the respectable middle classes whom theafter-the-war legislation did its best to break, or to the class ofactual manual laborers."

"I don't see what place a man like Miller has in your scheme of things,"he observed, a little restlessly.

She shrugged her shoulders.

"Miller is a limpet," she said. "He has posed as a man of brains forhalf a generation. His only real cleverness is an unerring but selfishcapacity for attaching himself to the right cause. We can't ignore him.He has a following. On the other hand, he does not represent ourprinciples any more than Pitt would if he were still alive."

"What will be your position really as regards the two main sections ofthe Labour Party?" he asked. "We are absorbing the best of them, day byday," she answered quickly. "What is left of either will be merely thescum. The people will come to us. Their discarded leaders can crawlback to obscurity. The people may follow false gods for a very longtime, but they have the knack of recognising the truth when it is shownthem."

"You have the gift of conviction," he said thoughtfully.

She shrugged her shoulders.

"Our cause speaks, not I," she declared. "Every word I utter is a wasteof breath, a task of supererogation. You can't associate with StephenDartrey for a month without realising for yourself what our party meansand stands for. So—enough. I didn't ask you here to undertake anymissionary work. I asked you, as a matter of fact, for my own pleasure.Take another cigarette and pass me one, please. And here's anothercushion," she added, throwing it to him. "You look as though you neededit." He settled down more comfortably. He had the pleasant feeling ofbeing completely at his ease.

"So far as entertaining you is concerned," he confessed, "I fear I amlikely to be a failure. I am beginning to feel like a constant note ofinterrogation. There is so much I want to know."

"Proceed, then. I am resigned," she said with a smile. "Aboutyourself. I just knew of you as the writer of one or two articles inthe reviews. Why have I never heard more of you?"

"One reason," she confided, "is because I am so painfully young. Ihaven't had time yet to become a wonderful woman. You see, I have thetremendous advantage of not having known the world except fromunderneath a pigtail, while the war was on. I was able to bring tothese new conditions an absolutely unbiassed understanding."

"But what was your upbringing?" he asked. "Your father, for instance?"

"Is this going to be a pill for you?" she enquired, with slightlywrinkled forehead. "He was professor of English at Dresden University.We were all living there when the war broke out, but he was such afavourite that they let us go to Paris. He died there, the week afterpeace was declared. My mother still lives at Versailles. She wasgoverness to Lady Clanarton's grandchildren, hence my presence yesterdayin those aristocratic circles."

"And you live here alone?"

"With my secretary—the fuzzyhaired young person who was just gettingrid of Mr. Miller for me when you arrived. We are a terribly advancedcouple, in our ideas, but we lead a thoroughly reputable life. Isometimes think," she went on, with a sigh, "that all one's tendenciestowards the unusual can be got rid of in opinions. Susan, forinstance—that is my secretary's name—pronounces herself unblushinglyin favour of free love, but I don't think she has ever allowed a man tokiss her in her life."

"Your own opinions?" he asked curiously. "I suppose they, too, are alittle revolutionary, so far as regards our social laws?"

"I dare not even define them," she acknowledged, "they are so entirelynegative. Somehow or other, I can't help thinking that the presentsystem will die out through the sheer absurdity of it. We really shan'tneed a crusade against the marriage laws. The whole system iscommitting suicide as fast as it can."

"How old are you?" he asked.

"Twenty-four," she answered promptly.

"And supposing you fell in love—taking it for granted that you have notdone so already—should you marry?"

Her eyes rested upon his, a little narrowed, curiously and pleasantlyreflective. All the time the corners of her sensitive mouth twitched alittle.

"To tell you the truth," she confided, with a somewhat evasive air, "Ihave been so busy thinking out life for other people that I have neverstopped to apply its general principles to myself."

"You are a sophist," he declared.

"I have not your remarkable insight," she laughed mockingly.

CHAPTER XIII

"How this came about I don't even quite know," Tallente remarked, anhour or so later, as he laid down the menu and smiled across the cornertable in the little Soho restaurant at his two companions.

"I can tell you exactly," Nora declared. "You are in town for a fewdays only, and I want to see as much of you as I can; Susan here isdeserting me at nine o'clock to go to a musical comedy; I particularlywanted a sole Georges, and I knew, if Susan and I came here alone, aperson whom we neither of us like would come and share our table.Therefore, I made artless enquiries as to your engagements for theevening. When I found that you proposed to dine alone in some hiddenplace rather than run the risk of meeting any of your politicalacquaintances at the club, I went in for a little mental suggestion."

"I see," he murmured. "Then my invitation wasn't a spontaneous one?"

"Not at all," she agreed. "I put the idea into your head."

"And now that we are here, are you going to stretch me on the rack anddelve for my opinions on all sorts of subjects? is Miss Susan theregoing to take them down in shorthand on her cuff and you make a reportto Dartrey when he comes back to-morrow?"

She laughed at him from underneath her close-fitting, becoming littlehat. She was biting an olive with firm white teeth.

"After hours," she reassured him. "Susan and I are going to talk alittle nonsense after the day's work. You may join in if you can unbendso far. We shall probably eat more than is good for us—I had a cup ofcoffee for lunch—and if you decide to be magnificent and offer us wine,we shall drink it and talk more nonsense than ever."

He called for the wine list.

"I thought we were going to discuss the effect of Grecian philosophyupon the Roman system of government."

She shook her head.

"You're a long way out," she declared, "Our conversation will skirt theedges of many subjects. We shall speak of the Russian Ballet, Susan andI will exchange a few whispered confidences about our admirers, we shalldiscuss even one who comes in and goes out, with subtle references totheir clothes and morals, and when you and I are left alone we may evenindulge in the wholesome, sentimental exercise of a little flirtation."

"There you have me," he confessed. "I know a little about everythingelse you have mentioned."

"A very good opening." she approved. "Keep it till Susan has gone andthen propose yourself as a disciple. There is only one drawback aboutthis place," she went on, nodding curtly across the room to Miller. "Somany of our own people come here. Mr. Miller must be pleased to see ustogether."

"Why?" Tallente asked. "Is he an admirer?"

Nora's face was almost ludicrously expressive.

"He would like to he," she admitted, "but, thick-skinned though he is, Ihave managed to make him understand pretty well how I feel about him.You'll find him a thorn in your side," she went on reflectively.

"You see, if our party has a fault, it is in a certain lack of system.We have only a titular chief and no real leader. Miller thinks thatpost is his by predestination. Your coming is beginning to worry himalready. It was entirely on your account he paid me that visit thisafternoon."

"To be perfectly frank with you," Tallente sighed, "I should find Millera loathsome coadjutor."

"There are drawbacks to everything in life," Nora replied. "Long beforeMiller has become anything except a nuisance to you, you will haverealised that the only political party worth considering, during thenext fifty years, at any rate, will be the Democrats. After that, Ishouldn't be at all surprised if the aristocrats didn't engineer arevolution, especially if we disenfranchise them.—Susan, you have a newhat on. Tell me at once with whom you are going to Daly's?"

"No one who counts," the girl declared, with a little grimace. "I amgoing with my brother and a very sober married friend of his."

"After working hours," Nora confessed, glancing critically at the solewhich had just been tendered for Tallente's examination, "the chiefinterest of Susan and myself, as you may have observed, lies in food andin your sex. I think we must have what some nasty German woman oncecalled the man-hunger."

"It sounds cannibalistic," Tallente rejoined. "Have I any cause foralarm?"

"Not so far as I am concerned," Susan assured him. "I have really foundmy man, only he doesn't know it yet. I am trying to get it into hisbrain by mental suggestion."

"You wouldn't think Susan would be so much luckier than I, would you?"Nora observed, studying her friend reflectively. "I am really muchbetter-looking, but I think she must have more taking ways. You needn'tbe nervous, Mr. Tallente. You are outside the range of our ambitions.I shall have to be content with some one in a humbler walk of life."

"Aren't you a little over-modest?" he asked. "You haven't told me muchabout the social side of this new era which you propose to inaugurate,but I imagine that intellect will be the only aristocracy."

"Even then," Norah sighed, "I am lacking in confidence. To tell you thetruth, I am not a great believer in my own sex. I don't see usoccupying a very prominent place in the politics of the next fewdecades. The functions of woman were decided for her by nature and amillion years of revolt will never alter them."

Tallente was a little surprised.

"You mean that you don't believe in woman Member of Parliament, doctorsand lawyers, and that sort of thing?"

"In a general way, certainly not," she replied. "Women doctors forwomen and children, yes! Lawyers—no! Members of Parliament—certainlynot! Women were made for one thing and to do that properly should takeall the energy they possess."

"You are full of surprises," Tallente declared. "I expected a miracleof complexity and I find you almost primitive." She laughed. "Thenconsidering the sort of man you are, I ought to have gone up a lot inyour estimation."

"There are a very few higher notches," he assured her, smiling, "thanthe one where you now sit enthroned."

Nora glanced at her wrist watch.

"Susan dear, what time do you have to join your friends?" she asked.

Susan shook her head.

"Nothing doing. I've got my seat. I am going when I've had my dinnercomfortably. There's fried chicken coming and no considerations offriendship would induce me to hurry away from it."

Nora sighed plaintively.

"There is no doubt about it, women do lack the sporting instinct," shelamented. "Now if we'd both been men, and Mr. Tallente a charmingwoman, I should have just given you a wink, you would have mutteredsomething clumsy about an appointment, shuffled off and finished yourdinner elsewhere."

"Our sex isn't capable of such sacrifices," Susan declared, leaning backto enable the waiter to fill her glass. "There's the champagne, too."

The meal came to a conclusion with scarcely another serious word. Susandeparted in due course, and Tallente called for his bill, a short timeafterwards, with a feeling of absolute reluctance.

"Shall we try and get in at a show somewhere?" he suggested.

She shook her head.

"Not to-night. Four nights a week I go to bed early and this is one ofthem. Let's escape, if we can, before Mr. Miller can make his way overhere. I know he'll try and have coffee with us or something."

Tallente was adroit and they left the restaurant just as Miller wasrising to his feet. Nora sprang into the waiting taxi with a littlelaugh of triumph and drew her skirts on one side to make room for herescort. They drove slowly off along the hot and crowded street, withits long-drawn-out tangle of polyglot shops, foreign-looking restaurantsand delicatessen establishments. Every one who was not feverishly busywas seated either at the open windows of the second or third floor, orout on the pavement below. The city seemed to be exuding the soaked-inheat of the long summer's day. The women who floated by were dressed inthe lightest of muslins; even the plainest of them gained a new charm intheir airy and butterfly-looking costumes. The men walked bareheaded,waistcoatless, fanning themselves with straw hats. Here and there, asthey turned into Shaftesbury Avenue, an immaculately turned-out youngman in evening dress passed along the baked pavements and dived into oneof the theatres. Notwithstanding the heat, there seemed to be a sort ofvoluptuous atmosphere brooding over the crowded streets. The sky overPiccadilly Circus was almost violet and the luminous, unneeded lamps hada festive effect. The strain of a long day had passed. It was thepleasure-seekers alone who thronged the thoroughfares. Tallente turnedand looked into the corner of the cab, to meet a soft, reflective gleamin Nora's eyes.

"Isn't London wonderful!" she murmured dreamily. "On a night like thisit always seems to me like a great human being whose pulses you can seeheating, beating all the time."

Tallente, a person very little given to self-analysis, never reallyunderstood the impulse which prompted him to lean towards her, theslightly quickening sense of excitement with which he sought for thekindness of her eyes. Suddenly he felt his fingers clasped in hers, awarm, pleasant grasp, yet which somehow or other seemed to have theeffect of a barrier.

"You asked me a question at dinner-time," she said, "winch I did notanswer at the time. You asked me why I disliked James Miller so much."

"Don't tell me unless you like," he begged. "Don't talk about thatsort of person at all just now, unless you want to."

"I must tell you why I dislike him so much," she insisted. "It isbecause he once tried to kiss me."

"Was that so terrible a sin?" he asked, a little thickly.

She smiled up at him with the candour of a child.

"To me it was," she acknowledged, "because it was just the casual caressof a man seeking for a momentary emotion. Sometimes you havewondered—or you have looked as though you were wondering—what my ideasabout men and women and the future and the marriage laws, and all thatsort of thing really are. Perhaps I haven't altogether made up my mindmyself, but I do know this, because it is part of myself and my life.The one desire I have is for children—sons for the State, or daughterswho may bear sons. There isn't anything else which it is worth whilefor a woman thinking about for a moment. And yet, do you know, I neveractually think of marrying. I never think about whether love is rightor wrong. I simply think that no man shall ever kiss me, or hold me inhis arms, unless it is the man who is sent to me for my desire, and whenhe comes, just whoever he may be, or whenever it may be, and whether St.George's opens its doors to us or whether we go through some tangle ofwords at a registry office, or whether neither of these things happens,I really do not mind. When he comes, he will give me what I want—thatis just all that counts. And until he comes, I shall stay just as Ihave been ever since my pigtail went up and my skirts came down."

She gave his hand a final little pressure, patted and released it. Hefelt, somehow or other, immeasurably grateful to her, flattered by herconfidence, curiously exalted by her hesitating words. Speech, however,he found an impossibility.

"So you see," she concluded, sitting up and speaking once more in herconversational manner, "I am not a bit modern really, am I? I am just asprimitive as I can be, longing for the things all women long for andunashamed to confess my longing to any one who has the gift ofunderstanding, any one who walks with his eyes turned towards theclouds."

Their taxicab stopped outside the building in which her little flat wassituated. She handed him the door key. "Please turn this for me," shebegged. "I am at home every afternoon between five and seven. Come andsee me whenever you can." He opened the door and she passed in, lookingback at him with a little wave of the hand before she vanished lightlyinto the shadows. Tallente dismissed the cab and walked back towardshis rooms. His light-heartedness was passing away with every step hetook. The cheerful little groups of pleasure-seekers he encounteredseemed like an affront to his increasing melancholy. Once more he hadto reckon with this strange new feeling of loneliness which had made itsdisturbing entrance into his thoughts within the last few years. It wasas though a certain weariness of life and its prospects had come withthe temporary cessation of his day-by-day political work, and as thoughan unsuspected desire, terrified at the passing years, was tugging athis heartstrings in the desperate call for some tardy realisation.

CHAPTER XIV

Tallente met the Prime Minister walking in the Park early on thefollowing morning. The latter had established the custom of walkingfrom Knightsbridge Barracks, where his car deposited him, to Marble Archand back every morning, and it had come to be recognised as his desire,and a part of the etiquette of the place, that he should be allowed thisexercise without receiving even the recognition of passersby. On thisoccasion, however, he took the initiative, stopped Tallente and invitedhim to talk with him.

"I thought of writing to you, Tallente," he said. "I cannot bringmyself to believe that you were in earnest on Wednesday morning."

"Absolutely," the other assured him. "I have an appointment with
Dartrey in an hour's time to close the matter."

The Prime Minister was shocked and pained.

"You will dig your own grave," he declared. "The idea is perfectlyscandalous. You propose to sell your political birthright for a mess ofpottage."

"I am afraid I can't agree with you, sir," Tallente regretted. "I am atleast as much in sympathy with the programme of the Democratic Party asI am with yours."

"In that case," was the somewhat stiff rejoinder, "there is, I fear,nothing more to be said."

There was a brief silence. Tallente would have been glad to make hisescape, but found no excuse.

"When we beat Germany," Horlock ruminated, "the man in the streetthought that we had ensured the peace of the world. Who could havedreamed that a nation who had played such an heroic part, which hadimperiled its very existence for the sake of a principle, was all thetime rotten at the core!"

"I will challenge you to repeat that statement in the House or on anypublic platform, sir," Tallente objected. "The present state ofdiscontent throughout the country is solely owing to the shockingfinancial mismanagement of every Chancellor of the Exchequer andlawmaker since peace was signed. We won the war and the people who hadbeen asked to make heroic sacrifices were simply expected to continuethem afterwards as a matter of course. What chance has the man ofmoderate means had to improve his position, to save a little for his oldage, during the last ten years? A third of his income has gone intaxation and the cost of everything is fifty per cent, more than it wasbefore the war. And we won it, mind. That is what he can't understand.We won the war and found ruin."

"Legislation has done its best," the Prime Minister said, "to assist inthe distribution of capital."

"Legislation was too slow," Tallente answered bluntly. "Legislation isonly playing with the subject now. You sneer at the Democratic Party,but they have a perfectly sound scheme of financial reform and theyundertake to bring the income tax down to two shillings in the poundwithin the next three years."

"They'll ruin half the merchants and the manufacturers in the country ifthey attempt it."

"How can they ruin them?" Tallente replied. "The factories will bethere, the trade will be there, the money will still be there. Thefinancial legislation of the last few years has simply been a blatantnursing of the profiteer."

"I need not say, Tallente, that I disagree with you entirely," hiscompanion declared. "At the same time, I am not going to argue withyou. To tell you the truth, I spent a great part of last night with youin my thoughts. We cannot afford to let you go. Supposing, now, that Icould induce Watkinson to give up Kendal? His seat is quite safe andwith a little reshuffling you would be able to slip back gradually toyour place amongst us?"

Tallente shook his head.

"I am very sorry, sir," he said, "but my decision is taken. I have cometo the conclusion that, with proper handling and amalgamation, theDemocrats are capable of becoming the only sound political party atpresent possible. If Stephen Dartrey is still of the same mind when Isee him this morning, I shall throw in my lot with theirs."

The Prime Minister frowned. He recognised bitterly an error in tactics.The ranks of his own party were filled with brilliant men withoutexecutive gifts. It was for that reason he had for the moment ignoredTallente. He realised, however, that in the opposite camp no man couldbe more dangerous.

"This thing seems to me really terrible, Tallente," he protestedgravely. "After all, however much we may ignore it, there is what wemight call a clannishness amongst Englishmen of a certain order whichhas helped this country through many troubles. You are going to leavebehind entirely the companionship of your class. You are going to castin your lot with the riffraff of politics, the mealy-mouthed anarchistonly biding his time, the blatant Bolshevist talking of compromise withhis tongue in his cheek, the tub-thumper out to confiscate every one'swealth and start a public house. You won't know yourself in thisgallery."

Tallente shook his head.

"These people," he admitted, "are full of their extravagances, althoughI think that the types you mention are as extinct as the dodo, but Iwill admit their extravagances, only to pass on to tell you this. Iclaim for them that they are the only political party, even with theirstrange conglomeration of material, which possesses the least spark ofspirituality. I think, and their programme proves it, that they aretrying to look beyond the crying needs of the moment, trying to framelaws which will be lasting and just without pandering to capital orfactions of any sort. I think that when their time comes, they will tryat least to govern this country from the loftiest possible standard."

The Prime Minister completed his walk, the enjoyment of which Tallentehad entirely spoilt. He held out his hand a little pettishly.

"Politics," he said, "is the one career in which men seldom recover fromtheir mistakes. I hope that even at the eleventh hour you will relent.It will be a grief to all of us to see you slip away from the reputableplaces."

The Right Honourable John Augustus Horlock stepped into his motor-carand drove away. Tallente, after a glance at his watch, called a taxiand proceeded to keep his appointment at Demos House, the great block ofbuildings where Dartrey had established his headquarters. In the large,open waiting room where he was invited to take a seat he watched withinterest the faces of the passers-by. There seemed to be visitors fromevery class of the community. A Board of Trade official was there topresent some figures connected with the industry which he represented.Half a dozen operatives, personally conducted by a local leader, hadtravelled up that morning from one of the great manufacturing centres.A well-known writer was there, waiting to see the chief of the literarysection. Tallente found his period of detention all too short. He wassummoned in to see Dartrey, who welcomed him warmly.

"Sit down, Tallente," he invited. "We are both of us men who believe insimple things and direct action. Have you made up your mind?"

"I have," Tallente announced. "I have broken finally with Horlock. Ihave told him that I am coming to you."

Dartrey leaned over and held out both his hands. The spiritual side ofhis face seemed at that moment altogether in the ascendant. He welcomedTallente as the head of a great religious order might have welcomed anovice. He was full of dignity and kindliness as well as joy.

"You will help us to set the world to rights," he said. "Alas! that isonly a phrase, but you will help us to let in the light. Remember," hewent on, "that there may be moments of discouragement. Much of thematerial we have to use, the people we have to influence, the way wehave to travel, may seem sordid, but the light is shining there all thetime, Tallente. We are not politicians. We are deliverers."

It was one of Dartrey's rare moments of genuine enthusiasm. His visitorforgot for a moment the businesslike office with its row of telephones,its shelves of blue books and masses of papers. He seemed to bebreathing a new and wonderful atmosphere.

"I am your man, Dartrey," he promised simply. "Make what use of me youwill."

Dartrey smiled, once more the plain, kindly man of affairs.

"To descend, then, very much to the earth," he said, "to-night you mustgo to Bradford. Odames will resign to-morrow. This time," he added,with a little smile, "I think I can promise you the Democratic supportand a very certain election."

BOOK TWO

CHAPTER I

Tallente found himself possessed of a haunting, almost a morbid feelingthat a lifetime had passed since last his car had turned out of thestation gates and he had seen the moorland unroll itself before hiseyes. There was a new pungency in the autumn air, an unaccustomedscantiness in the herbiage of the moor and the low hedges growing fromthe top of the stone walls. The glory of the heather had passed,though here and there a clump of brilliant yellow gorse remained. Thetelegraph posts, leaning away from the wind, seemed somehow scantier;the road stretched between them, lonely and desolate. From a farmhousein the bosom of the tree-hung hills lights were already twinkling, andwhen he reached the edge of the moor, and the sea spread itself outalmost at his feet, the shapes of the passing steamers, with their longtrail of smoke, were blurred and uncertain. Below, his home field, hiswall-enclosed patch of kitchen garden, the long, low house itself laylike pieces from a child's play-box stretched out upon the carpet. Onlyto-night there was no mist. They made their cautious way downwardsthrough the clearest of darkening atmospheres. On the hillsides, asthey dropped down, they could hear the music of an occasional sheepbell. Rabbits scurried away from the headlights of the car, an earlyowl flew hooting over their heads. Tallente, tired with his journey,perhaps a little worn with the excitement of the last two months, foundsomething dark and a little lonely about the unoccupied house, somethinga little dreary in his solitary dinner and the long evening spent withno company save his books and his pipe. Later on, he lay for longawake, watching the twin lights flash out across the Channel andlistening to the melancholy call of the owls as they swept back andforth across the lawn to their secret abodes in the cliffs. When atlast he slept, however, he slept soundly. An unlooked-for gleam ofsunshine and the dull roar of the incoming tide breaking upon the beachbelow woke him the next morning long after his usual hour. He bathed,shaved in front of the open window, and breakfasted with an absoluterenewal of his fuller interest in life. It was not until he had sentback the car in which he had driven as far as the station, and wasswinging on foot across Woolhanger Moor, that he realised fully why hehad come, why he had schemed for these two days out of a life packedwith multifarious tasks. Then he laughed at himself, heartily yet alittle self-consciously. A fool's errand might yet be a pleasant one,even though his immediate surroundings seemed to mock the sound of hismirth. Woolhanger Moor in November was a drear enough sight. Therewere many patches of black mud and stagnant water, carpets oftreacherous-looking green moss, bare clumps of bushes bent all one wayby the northwest wind, masses of rock, gaunter and sterner now thattheir summer covering of creeping shrubs and bracken had lost theirfoliage. It was indeed the month of desolation. Every scrap of colourseemed to have faded from the dripping wet landscape. Phantasmal cloudsof grey mist brooded here and there in the hollows. The distant hillswere wreathed in vapour, so that even the green of the pastures wasinvisible. Every now and then a snipe started up from one of the weedyplaces with his shrill, mournful cry, and more than once a solitary hawkhovered for a few minutes above his head. The only other sign of lifewas a black speck in the distance, a speck which came nearer and neareruntil he paused to watch it, standing upon a little incline and lookingsteadily along the rude cart track. The speck grew in size. A personon horseback,—a woman! Soon she swung her horse around as though sherecognised him, jumped a little dike to reach him the quicker and reinedup her horse by his side, holding one hand down to him. "Mr.Tallente!" she exclaimed. "How wonderful!" He held her hand, lookingsteadfastly, almost eagerly, up into her flushed face. Her eyes werefilled with pleasure. His errand, in those few breathless moments,seemed no longer the errand of a fool.

"I can't realise it, even now," she went on, drawing her hand away atlast. "I pictured you at Westminster, in committee rooms and all sortsof places. Aren't you forging weapons to drive us from our homes andportion out our savings?"

"I have left the thunderbolts alone for one short week-end," heanswered. "I felt a hunger for this moorland air. London becomes soenveloping." Jane sat upright upon her horse and looked at him with amocking smile. "How ungallant! I hoped you had come to atone for yourneglect."

"Have I neglected you?" he asked quietly, turning and walking by herside.

"Shockingly! You lunched with me on the seventh of August. I see youagain on the second of November, and I do believe that I shall have tosave you from starvation again."

"It's quite true," he admitted. "I have a sandwich in my pocket,though, in case you were away from home."

"Worse than ever," she sighed. "You didn't even trouble to makeenquiries."

"From whom should I? Robert—my servant—his wife, and a boy to help inthe garden are all my present staff at the Manor. Robert drives the carand waits on me, and his wife cooks. They are estimable people, but Idon't think they are up in local news."

"You were quite safe," she said, looking ahead of her. "I am neveraway." The tail end of a scat of rain beat on their faces. From thehollow on their left, the wind came booming up.

"I should have thought that for these few months just now," hesuggested, "you might have cared for a change."

"I have my work here, such as it is," she answered, a little listlessly.
"If I were in town, for instance, I should have nothing to do."

"You would meet people. You must sometimes feel the need of societydown here."

"I doubt whether I should meet the people who would interest me," shereplied, "and in any case I have my work here. That keeps me occupied."

They turned into the avenue and soon the long front of the house spreaditself out before them. Jane, who had been momentarily absorbed, lookeddown at her companion.

"You are alone at the Manor?" she asked.

"Quite alone."

She became the hostess directly they had passed the portals of thehouse. She led him across the hall into her little sanctum.

"This is the room," she told him, "in which I never do a stroke ofwork—sacred to the frivolities alone. I shall send Morton in to seewhat you will have to drink, while I change my habit. You must havesomething after that walk. I shan't be long."

For the second time she avoided meeting his eves as she left the room.Tallente stood on the hearth-rug, still looking at the closed doorthrough which she had vanished, puzzled, a little chilled. He gave hisorder to the attentive butler who presently appeared and who looked athim with covert interest,—the Press had been almost hystericallyprodigal of his name during the last few weeks. Then he settled down towait for her return with an impatience which became almostuncontrollable. It seemed to him, as he paced restlessly about, thatthis little apartment, which he remembered so well, had in a measurechanged, was revealing a different atmosphere, as though in sympathywith some corresponding change in its presiding spirit. There was ahuge and well-worn couch, smothered with cushions and suggestive of acomfort almost voluptuous; a large easy-chair, into which he presentlysank, of the same character. The wood logs burning in the grate gaveout a pleasant sense of warmth. He took more particular note of thevolumes in the well-filled bookcases,—volumes of poetry, French novels,with a fair sprinkling of modern English fiction. There was a plastercast of the Paris Magdalene over the door and one or two fine pointetchings, after the style of Heillieu, upon the walls. There was nowriting table in the room, nor any signs of industry, but a black oakgate-table was laden with magazines and fashion papers. Against thebrown walls, a clump of flaming yellow gorse leaned from a distantcorner, its faint almond-like fragrance mingling aromatically with theperfume of burning logs and a great bowl of dried lavender. More thanever it seemed to Tallente that the atmosphere of the room had changed,had become in some subtle way at the same time more enervating and moreexciting. It was like a revelation of a hidden side of the woman, whomight indeed have had some purpose of her own in leaving him here. Heset down his empty glass with the feeling that vermouth was a heavierdrink than he had fancied. Then a streak of watery sunshine filteredits way through the plantation and crept across the worn, handsomecarpet. He felt a queer exultation at the sound of her footstepsoutside. She entered, as she had departed, without directly meeting hisearnest gaze.

"I hope you have made yourself at home," she said. "Dear me, how untidyeverything is!"

She moved about, altering the furniture a little, making little piles ofthe magazines, a graceful, elegant figure in her dark velvet housedress, with a thin band of fur at the neck. She turned suddenly aroundand found him watching her. This time she laughed at him frankly.

"Sit down at once," she ordered, motioning him back to his easy-chairand coming herself to a corner of the lounge. "Remember that you have agreat deal to tell me and explain. The newspapers say such queerthings. Is it true that I really am entertaining a possible futurePrime Minister?"

"I suppose that might be," he answered, a little vaguely, his eyes stillfixed upon her. "So this is your room. I like it. And I like—"

"Well, go on, please," she begged.

"I like the softness of your gown, and I like the fur against yourthroat and neck, and I like those buckles on your shoes, and the way youdo your hair."

She laughed, gracefully enough, yet with some return to that note ofuneasiness.

"You mustn't turn my head!" she protested. "You, fresh from London,which they tell me is terribly gay just now! I want to understand justwhat it means, your throwing in your lot with the Democrats. My unclesays, for instance, that you have abandoned respectable politics tobecome a Tower Hill pedagogue."

"Respectable politics," he replied, "if by that you mean the presentgovernment of the country, have been in the wrong hands for so long thatpeople scarcely realise what is undoubtedly the fact—that the countryisn't being governed at all. A Government with an Opposition Partyalmost as powerful as itself, all made up of separate parties which arecontinually demanding sops, can scarcely progress very far, can it?"

"But the Democrats," she ventured, "are surely only one of theseisolated parties?"

"I have formed a different idea of their strength," he answered. "Ibelieve that if a general election took place to-morrow, the Democratswould sweep the country. I believe that we should have the largestworking majority any Government has had since the war."

"How terrible!" she murmured, involuntarily truthful.

"Your tame socialism isn't equal to the prospect," he remarked, a littlebitterly.

"My tame socialism, as you call it," she replied, "draws the line atseeing the country governed by one class of person only, and that classthe one who has the least at stake in it."

"Lady Jane," he said earnestly, "I am glad that I am here to point outto you a colossal mistake from which you and many others are suffering.The Democrats do not represent Labour only."

"The small shopkeepers?" she suggested.

"Nothing of the sort," he replied. "The influence of my party hasspread far deeper and further. We number amongst our adherents themajority of the professional classes and the majority of the thinkingpeople amongst the community of moderate means. Why, if you considerthe legislation of the last seven or eight years, you will see how theyhave been driven to embrace some sort of socialism. Nothing sodetestable and short-sighted as our financial policy has ever been knownin the history of the world. The middle classes, meaning by the middleclasses professional men and men of moderate means, bore the chiefburden of the war. They submitted to terrible taxation, to manyprivations, besides the universal gift of their young blood. We won thewar and what was the result? The wealth of the country, through ghastlylegislation, drifted into the hands of the profiteering classes, thewholesale shopkeepers, the ship owners, the factory owners, the mineowners. The professional man with two thousand a year was able to savea quarter of that before the war. After the war, taxation demanded thatquarter and more for income tax, thrust upon him an increased cost ofliving, cut the ground from beneath his feet. It isn't either of thetwo extremes—the aristocrat or the labouring man—where you must lookfor the pulse of a country's prosperity. It is to the classes inbetween, and, Lady Jane, they are flocking to our camp just as fast asthey can, just as fast as the country is heading for ruin under itspresent Government."

"You are very convincing," she admitted. "Why have you not spoken soplainly in the House?"

"The moment hasn't arrived," Tallente replied. "There will be a GeneralElection before many months have passed and that will be the end of thepresent fools' paradise at St. Stephen's."

"And then?"

"We shan't abuse our power," he assured her. "What we aim at is aNational Party which will consider the interests of every class. Thatis our reading of the term 'Democrat.' Our programme is not nearly sorevolutionary as you are probably led to believe, but we do mean tosmooth away, so far as we can from a practical point of view, theinequalities of life. We want to sweep away the last remnants offeudalism."

"Tell me why they were so anxious to gather you into the fold?" sheasked.

"I think for this reason," he explained. "Stephen Dartrey is abrilliant writer, a great orator, and an inspired lawmaker. The wholeworld recognises him as a statesman. It is his name and genius whichhave made the Democratic Party possible. On the other hand, he is notin the least a politician. He doesn't understand the game as it isplayed in the House of Commons. He lives above those things. That iswhy I suppose they wanted me. I have learnt the knack of apt debatingand I understand the tricks. Even if ever I become the titular head ofthe party, Dartrey will remain the soul and spirit of it. If they werenot able to lay their hands upon some person like myself, I believe thatMiller was supposed to have the next claim, and I should think thatMiller is the one man in the world who might disunite the strongestparty on earth."

"Disunite it? I should think he would disperse it to the four cornersof the world!" she exclaimed.

The butler announced luncheon. She rose to her feet.

"I cannot tell you," he said, with a little sigh of relief, as he heldopen the door for her, "how thankful I am that I happened to find youalone."

CHAPTER II

Luncheon was a pleasant, even a luxurious meal, for the Woolhanger chefhad come from the ducal household, but it was hedged about withrestraints which fretted Tallente and rendered conversationmonosyllabic. It was served, too, in the larger dining room, where thetable, reduced to its smallest dimensions, still seemed to place aformidable distance between himself and his hostess. A manservant stoodbehind Lady Jane's chair, and the butler was in constant attendance atthe sideboard. Under such circumstances, conversation became precariousand was confined chiefly to local topics. When they left the room fortheir coffee, they found it served in the hall. Tallente, however,protested vigorously.

"Can't we have it served in your sitting room, please?" he begged. "Itis impossible to talk to you here. There are people in the backgroundall the time, and you might have callers."

She hesitated for a moment but yielded the point. With the door closedand the coffee tray between them, Tallente drew a sigh of relief.

"I hope you don't think I am a nuisance," he said bluntly, "but, afterall, I came down from London purposely to see you."

"I am not so vain as to believe that," she answered.

"It is nevertheless true and I think that you do believe it. What have
I done that you should all of a sudden build a fence around yourself?"

"That may be," she replied, smiling, "for my own protection. I canassure you that I am not used to tête-a-tête luncheons with guests whoinsist upon having their own way in everything."

"I wonder if it is a good thing for you to be so much your ownmistress," he reflected.

"You must judge by results. I always have been—at least since Idecided to lead this sort of life."

"Why have you never married?" he asked her, a little abruptly.

"We discussed that before, didn't we? I suppose because the right manhas never asked me."

"Perhaps," he ventured, "the right man isn't able to."

"Perhaps there isn't any right man at all—perhaps there never will be."

The minutes ticked away. The room, with its mingled perfumes andpleasant warmth, its manifold associations with her wholesome andorderly life, seemed to have laid a sort of spell upon him. She wasleaning back in her corner of the lounge, her hands hanging over thesides, her eyes fixed upon the burning log. She herself was soabstracted that he ventured to let his eyes dwell upon her, to trace theoutline of her slim but powerful limbs, to admire her long, delicatefeet and hands, the strong womanly face, with its kindly mouth and soft,almost affectionate eyes. Tallente, who for the last ten years hadlooked upon the other sex as non-existent, crushed into an uninterestingnegation for him owing to his wife's cold and shadowy existence, twicewithin the last few months found himself pass in a different way underthe greatest spell in life. Nora Miall had provoked his curiosity, hadreawakened a dormant sense of sex without attracting it towards herself.Jane brought to him again, from the first moment he had seen her, thathalf-wistful recrudescence of the sentiment of his earlier days. He wasamazed to find how once more in her presence that sentiment had taken toitself fire and life, how different a thing it was from those firstdreams of her, which had seemed like an echo from the period of hispoetry-reading youth. Of all women in the world she seemed to him nowthe most desirable. That she was unattainable he was perfectly willingto admit. Even then he had not the strength to deny himself thedoubtful joys of imagination with regard to her. He revelled in herproximity because of the pleasure it gave him, heedless or reckless ofconsequences. Between them, in vastly different degrees, these twowomen seemed to have brought him back something of his youth.

The silence became noticeable, led him at last into a certain measure ofalarm.

"Lady Jane," he ventured, "have I said anything to offend you?"

"Of course not," she answered, looking at him kindly.

"You are very silent. Are you afraid that I am going to attempt to makelove to you?"

She was startled in earnest this time. She sat up and looked at himdisapprovingly. There was a touch of the old hauteur in her tone.

"How can you be so ridiculous!" she exclaimed.

"Would it be ridiculous of me?"

"Does it occur to you," she asked, "that I am the sort of person toencourage attentions from a man who is not free to offer them?"

"I had forgotten that," he admitted, quite frankly. "Of course, I seethe point. I have a wife, even though of her own choosing she does notcount."

"She exists."

"So do I."

Jane broke into a little laugh.

"Now we are both being absurd," she declared, "and I don't want to beand I don't want you to be. Of course, you can't look at things just asI do. You belong to a very large world. You spend your life destroyingobstacles. All my people, you know," she went on, "look upon me asterribly emancipated. They think my mild socialism and my refusal tolisten to such a thing as a chaperon most terribly improper, but atheart, you know, I am still a very conventional person. I have torndown a great many conventions, but there are some upon which I cannotbring myself even to lay my fingers."

"Perhaps it wouldn't be you if you did," he reflected.

"Perhaps not."

"And yet," he went on, "tell me, are you wholly content here? Yourlife, in its way, is splendid. You live as much for the benefit ofothers as for yourself. You are encouraging the right principle amongstyour yeomen and your farmers. You are setting your heel uponfeudalism—you, the daughter of a race who have always demanded it. Youlive amongst these wonderful surroundings, you grow into the bigness ofthem, nature becomes almost your friend. It is one of the mostdignified and beautiful lives I ever knew for a woman, and yet—are youwholly content?"

"I am not," she admitted frankly. "And listen," she went on, after amoment's pause, "I will show you how much I trust you, how much I reallywant you to understand me. I am not completely happy because I knowperfectly well that it is unnatural to live as I do. If I met the man Icould care for and who cared for me, I should prefer to be married." Shehad commenced her speech with the faintest tinge of colour burningunderneath the wholesome sunburn of her cheeks. She had spoken boldlyenough, even though towards the end of her sentence her voice had grownvery low. When she had finished, however, it seemed as though thememory of her words were haunting her, as though she suddenly realisedthe nakedness of them. She buried her face in her hands, and he saw hershoulders heave as though she were sobbing. He stood very close and forthe first time he touched her. He held the fingers of her hand gentlyin his. "Dear Lady Jane," he begged, "don't regret even for a momentthat you have spoken naturally. If we are to be friends, to be anythingat all to one another, it is wonderful of you to tell me so sweetly whatwomen take such absurd pains to conceal. . . . When you look up, letus start our friendship all over again, only before you do, listen to myconfession. If fifteen years could be rolled off my back and I werefree, it isn't political ambition I should look to for my guiding star.I should have one far greater, far more wonderful desire." The fingershe held were gently withdrawn. She drew herself up. Her forehead waswrinkled questioningly. She forced a smile. "You would be veryfoolish," she said, "if you tried to part with one of those fifteenyears. Every one has brought you experiences Every one has helped tomake you what you are."

"And yet—" he began.

He broke off abruptly in his speech. The hall seemed suddenly full ofvoices. Jane rose to her feet at the sound of approaching footsteps.She made the slightest possible grimace, but Tallente was oppressed witha suspicion that the interruption was not altogether unwelcome to her.

"Some of my cousins and their friends from Minehead," she said. "I amso sorry. I expect they have lost the hunt and come here for tea."

The room was almost instantly invaded by a company of light-hearted,noisy young people, flushed with exercise and calling aloud for tea,intimates all of them, calling one another by their Christian names,speaking a jargon which sounded to Tallente like another language. Hestayed for a quarter of an hour and then took his leave. Of thenewcomers, no one seemed to have an idea who he was, no one seemed tocare in the least whether he remained or went, He was only able tosnatch a word of farewell with Jane at the door. She shook her head athis whispered request.

"I am afraid not," she answered. "How could I? Besides, there is notelling when this crowd will go. You are sure you won't let me send youhome?"

Tallente shook his head.

"The walk will do me good," he said. "I get lazy in town. But you aresure—"

The butler was holding open the door. Two of the girls had suddenlytaken possession of Jane. She shook her head slightly.

"Good-by," she called out. "Come and see me next time you are down."

Tallente was suddenly his old self, grave and severe. He bowed stifflyin response to the little chorus of farewells and followed the butlerdown the hall. The latter, who was something of a politician, did hisbest to indicate by his manner his appreciation of Tallente's position.

"You are sure you won't allow me to order a car, sir?" he said, with hishand upon the door. "I know her ladyship would be only too pleased.It's a long step to the Manor, and if you'll forgive my saying so, sir,you've a good deal on your shoulders just now."

Tallente caught a glimpse of the bleak moorland and of the distanthills, wrapped in mist. The idea of vigorous exercise, however,appealed to him. He shook his head.

"I'd rather walk, thanks," he said.

"It's a matter of five miles, sir."

Tallente smiled. There was something in the fresh, cold air wonderfullyalluring after the atmosphere of the room he had quitted. He turned hiscoat collar up and strode down the avenue.

CHAPTER III

Tallente reached the Manor about an hour and a half later, mud-splashed,wet and weary. Robert followed him into the study and mixed him awhisky and soda.

"You've walked all the way back, sir?" he remarked, with a note ofprotest in his tone.

"They offered me a car," Tallente admitted. "I didn't want it. I camedown for fresh air and exercise."

"Two very good things in their way, sir, but easily overdone," was themild rejoinder. "These hills are terrible unless you're at them all thetime."

Tallente drank his whisky and soda almost greedily and felt the benefitof it, although he was still weary. He had walked for five miles in thecompany of ghosts and their faces had been grey. Perhaps, too, it wasthe passing of his youth which brought this tiredness to his limbs.

"Robert," he confessed abruptly, "I was a fool to come down here atall."

"It's dreary at this time of the year unless you've time to shoot orhunt, sir. Why not motor to Bath to-morrow? I could wire for rooms,and I could drive you up to London the next day. Motoring's a good wayof getting the air, sir, and you won't overtire yourself."

"I'll think of it in the morning," his master promised.

"My wife has found the silver, sir," Robert announced, as he turned toleave the room, "and I managed to get a little fish. That, with somesoup, a pheasant, and a fruit tart, we thought—"

"I shall be alone, Robert," Tallente interrupted. "There is no onecoming for dinner."

The man's disappointment was barely concealed. He sighed as he took upthe tray.

"Very good, sir. Your clothes are all out. I'll turn on the hot waterin the bathroom."

Tallente threw off his rain and mud-soaked clothes, bathed, changed anddescended to the dining room just as the gong sounded. Robert was inthe act of moving the additional place from the little round diningtable which he had drawn up closer to the wood fire, but his masterstopped him.

"You can let those things be," he directed. "Take away the champagne,though. I shan't want that."

Robert bowed in silent appreciation of his master's humour and beganladling out soup at the sideboard. Tallente's lips were curled alittle, partly in self-contempt, with perhaps just a dash of self-pity.It had come to this, then, that he must dine with fancies rather thanalone, that this tardily developed streak of sentimentality must beministered to or would drag him into the depths of dejection. He beganto understand the psychology of its late appearance. Stella'sartificial companionship had kept his thoughts imprisoned, fettered withthe meshes of an instinctive fidelity, and had driven him sedulously tothe solace of work and books. Now that it was removed and he was to allpractical purposes a free man, they took their own course. His life hadsuddenly become a natural one, and all that was human in him respondedto the possibilities of his solitude, He had had as yet no time toexperience the relief, to appreciate his liberty, before he was face toface with this new loneliness. To-night, he thought, as he looked atthe empty place and remembered his wistful, almost diffident invitation,the solitude was almost unendurable. If she had only understood howmuch it meant, surely she would have made some effort, would not havebeen content with that half-embarrassed, half-doubtful shake of thehead! In the darkened room, with the throb of the sea and the cracklingof the lop in his ears, and only Robert's silent form for company, hefelt a sudden craving for the things of his youth, for another side oflife, the restaurants, the bright eyes of women, the whispered words ofpleasant sentiment, the perfume shaken into the atmosphere they created,the low music in the background "I beg your pardon, sir," Robert said inhis ear, "your soup. Gertrude has taken such pains with the dinner,sir," he added diffidently. "If I might take the liberty of suggestingit, it would be as well if you could eat something." Tallente took uphis spoon. Then they both started, they both turned to the window. Alight had flashed into the room, a low, purring sound came from outside.

"A car, sir!" Robert exclaimed, his face full of pleasurableanticipation. "If you'll excuse me, I'll answer the door. Might it bethe lady, after all, sir?" He hurried out. Tallente rose slowly to hisfeet. He was listening intently. The thing wasn't possible, he toldhimself. It wasn't possible! Then he heard a voice in the hall.Robert threw the door open and announced in a tone of triumph—

"Lady Jane Partington, sir."

She came towards him, smiling, self-possessed, but a littleinterrogative. He had a lightning-like impression of her beautifulshoulders rising from her plain black gown, her delightfully easy walk,the slimness and comeliness and stateliness of her.

"I know that I ought to be ashamed of myself for coming after I had toldyou I couldn't," she said. "It will serve me right if you've eaten allthe dinner, but I do hope you haven't."

"I had only just sat down," he told her, as he and Robert held herchair, "and I think that this is the kindest action you ever performedin your life."

Robert, his face glowing with satisfaction, had become ubiquitous. Shehad scarcely subsided into her chair before he was offering her acocktail on a silver tray, serving Tallente with his forgotten glass, atthe sideboard ladling out soup, out of the room and in again, bringingback the rejected bottle of champagne.

"You will never believe that I am a sane person again," she laughed."After you had gone, and all those foolish children had departed, I feltit was quite impossible to sit down and dine alone. I wanted so much tocome and I realised how ridiculous it was of me not to have accepted atonce. At the last moment I couldn't bear it any longer, so I rushedinto the first gown I could find, ordered out my little coupé and here Iam."

"The most welcome guest who ever came to a lonely man," he assured her."A moment ago, Robert was complaining because I was sending my soupaway. Now I shall show him what Devon air can do."

The champagne was excellent, and the dinner over which Gertrude hadtaken so much care was after all thoroughly appreciated. Tallente,suddenly and unexpectedly light-hearted, felt a keen desire to entertainhis welcome guest, and remembered his former successes as a raconteur.They pushed politics and all personal matters far away. He dug upreminiscences of his class in foreign capitals, when he had firstentered the Diplomatic Service, betrayed his intimate knowledge of theFlorence which they both loved, of Paris, where she had studied andwhich he had seen under so many aspects,—Paris, the home of beauty andfashion before the war; torn with anguish and horror during its earlierstages; grim, steadfast and sombre in the clays of Verdun; wildly, madlyexultant when wreathed and decorated with victory. There were so manythings to talk about for two people of agile brains come together latein life. They had moved into the study and Lady Jane was sealed in hisfavourite easy-chair, sipping her coffee and some wonderful greenchartreuse, before a single personal note had crept into the flow oftheir conversation.

"It can't be that I am in Devonshire," she said. "I never realised howmuch like a succession of pictures conversation can be. You seem toremind me so much of things which I have kept locked away just becauseI have had no one to share them with."

"You are in Devonshire all right," he answered, smiling. "You willrealise it when you turn out of my avenue and face the hills. You see,you've dropped down from the fairyland of 'up over' to the nesting placeof the owls and the gulls."

"Nine hundred feet," she murmured. "Thank heavens for my fortyhorsepower engine! I want to see the sea break against your rocks," shewent on, as she took the cigarette which he passed her. "There used tobe a little path through your plantation to a place where you looksheer down. Don't you remember, you took me there the first time Icame to see you, in August, and I have never forgotten it."

He rang the bell for her coat. The night, though windy and dark, waswarm. Stars shone out from unexpected places, pencil-like streaks ofinky-black clouds stretched menacingly across the sky. The wind camedown from the moors above with a dull boom which seemed echoed by thewaves beating against the giant rocks. The beads of the bare treesamong which they passed were bent this way and that, and the fewremaining leaves rustled in vain resistance, or, yielding to theirresistible gusts, sailed for a moment towards the skies, to be dasheddown into the ever-growing carpet. The path was narrow and they walkedin single file, but at the bend he drew level with her, walking on theseaward side and guiding her with his fingers upon her arm. Presentlythey reached the little circular space where rustic seats had beenplaced, and leaned over a grey stone wall.

There was nothing of the midsummer charm about the scene to-night.Sheer below them the sea, driven by tide and wind, rushed upon the hugemasses of rock or beat direct upon the cave-indented cliffs. The sprayleapt high into the air, to be caught up by the wind in whirlpools,little ghostly flecks, luminous one moment and gone forever the next.Far away across the pitchy waters they could see at regular intervals aline of white where the breakers came rushing in, here and there theagitated lights of passing steamers; opposite, the twin flares on theWelsh coast, and every sixty seconds the swinging white illuminationfrom the Lynmouth Lighthouse, shining up from behind the headland. Janeslipped one hand through his arm and stood there, breathless,rapturously watchful. "This is wonderful," she murmured. "It is theone thing we have always lacked at Woolhanger. We get the booming ofthe wind—wonderful it is, too, like the hollow thunder of guns or thequick passing of an underground army—but we miss this. I feel,somehow, as though I knew now why it tears past us, uprooting the verytrees that stand in its way. It rushes to the sea. What a meeting!"Her hand tightened upon his arm as a great wave broke direct upon thecliff below and a torrent of wind, rushing through the trees anddownwards, caught the spray and scattered it around them and high overtheir heads.

"We humans," he whispered, "are taught our lesson."

"Do we need it?" she asked, with sudden fierceness. "Do you believethat because some mysterious power imposes restraint upon us, thepassion isn't there all the while?"

She was suddenly in his arms, the warm wind shrieking about them, thedarkness thick and soft as a mantle. Only he saw the anguishedhappiness in her eyes as they closed beneath his kisses.

"One moment out of life," she faltered, "one moment!"

Another great wave shook the ground beneath them, but she had drawnaway. She struggled for breath. Then once more her hand was thrustthrough his arm. He knew so well that his hour was over and hesubmitted.

"Back, please," she whispered, "back through the plantation—quietly."

An almost supernatural instinct divined and acceded to her desire forsilence. So they walked slowly back towards the long, low house whosefaint lights flickered through the trees. She leaned a little upon him,the hand which she had passed through his arm was clasped in his. Onlythe wind spoke. When at last they were en the terraces she drew a longbreath.

"Dear friend," she said softly, "see how I trust you. I leave in yourkeeping the most precious few minutes of my life."

"This is to be the end, then?" he faltered.

"It is not we who have decided that," she answered. "It is just whatmust be. You go to a very difficult life, a very splendid one. I havemy smaller task. Don't unfit me for it. We will each do our best."

Her servant was waiting by the car. His figure loomed up through thedarkness. "You will come into the house for a few minutes?" he beggedhoarsely. She shook her head.

"Why? Our farewells have been spoken. I leave you—so."

The man had disappeared behind the bonnet of the car. She grasped hishand with both of hers and brushed it lightly with her lips. Then shegilded away. A moment later he was listening to her polite speeches asshe leaned out of the coupé. "My dinner was too wonderful," she said."Do make my compliments to that dear Robert and his wife. Good luck toyou, and don't rob us poor landowners of every penny we possess inlife."

The car was gone in the midst of his vague little response. He watchedthe lights go flashing up the hillside, crawling around the hairpincorners, up until it seemed that they had reached the black clouds andwere climbing into the heavens. Then he turned back into the house.The world was still a place for dreams.

CHAPTER IV

Tallente sat in the morning train, on his way to town, and on the otherside of the bare ridge at which he gazed so earnestly Lady Jane andSegerson had brought their horses to a standstill half way along a rudecart track which led up to a farmhouse tucked away in the valley.

"This is where James Crockford's land commences," Segerson remarked,riding up to his companion's side. "Look around you. I think you willadmit that I have not exaggerated."

She frowned thoughtfully. On every side were evidences of poor farmingand neglect. The untrimmed hedges had been broken down in many placesby cattle. A plough which seemed as though it had been embedded therefor ages, stood in the middle of a half-ploughed field. Several tractsof land which seemed prepared for winter sowing were covered withstones. The farmhouse yard, into which they presently passed, was dirtyand untidy. Segerson leaned down and knocked on the door with his whip.After a short delay, a slatternly-looking woman, with tousled fair hair,answered the summons.

"Mr. Crockford in?" Segerson asked.

"You'll find him in the living room," the woman answered curtly, with astare at Lady Jane. "Here's himself."

She retreated into the background. A man with flushed face, withoutcollar or tie, clad in trousers and shirt only, had stepped out of theparlour. He stared at his visitors in embarrassment.

"I came over to have a word or two with you on business, Mr.Crockford," Jane said coldly. "I rather expected to find you on theland."

The man mumbled something and threw open the door of the sitting room.

"Won't you come in?" he invited. "There's just Mr. Pettigrew here—thevet from Barnstaple. He's come over to look at one of my cows."

Mr. Pettigrew, also flushed, rose to his feet. Jane acknowledged hisgreeting and glanced around the room. It was untidy, dirty and close,smelling strongly of tobacco and beer. On the table was a bottle ofwhisky, half empty, and two glasses.

"There is really no reason why I should disturb you," Jane said, turningback upon the threshold. "A letter from Mr. Segerson will do."

Crockford, however, had pulled himself together. A premonition of hisimpending fate had already produced a certain sullenness.

"Pettigrew," he directed, "you get out and have another look at the cow.
If you've any business word to say to me, your ladyship, I'm here."

Jane looked once more around the squalid room, watched the unsteadyfigure of Pettigrew departing and looked back at her tenant.

"Your lease is up on March the twenty-fifth, Crockford," she remindedhim. "I have come to tell you that I shall not be prepared to renewit."

The man simply blinked at her. His fuddled brain was not equal tograppling with such a catastrophe.

"Your farm is favourably situated," she continued, "and, although small,has great possibilities. I find you are dropping behind your neighboursand your crops are poorer each season. Have you saved any money,Crockford?"

"Saved any money," the man blustered, "with shepherd's wages alone attwo pounds a week, and a week's rain starting in the day I beganhay-making. Why, my barley—"

"You started your hay-making ten days too late," Segerson interruptedsternly. "You had plenty of warning. And as for your barley, you soldit in the King's Arms at Barnstaple, when you'd had too much to drink,at thirty per cent, below its value."

Jane turned towards the door.

"I need not stay any longer," she said. "I wanted to look at your farmfor myself, Mr. Crockford, and I thought it only right that you shouldhave early notice of my intention to ask you to vacate the place."

The cold truth was finding its way into the man's consciousness. It hada wonderfully sobering effect.

"Look here, ma'am," he demanded, "is it true that you lent FarmerHolroyd four hundred pounds to buy his own farm and the Crocombebrothers two hundred each?"

"Quite true," Jane replied coldly. "What of it?"

"What of it?" the man repeated. "You lend them youngsters money andthen you come to me, a man who's been on this land for twenty-two years,and you've nothing to say but 'get out!' Where am I to find another farmat my time of life? Just answer me that, will you?"

"It is not my concern," Jane declared. "I only know that I decline tohave any tenants on my property who do not do justice to the land. WhenI see that they do justice to it, then it is my wish that they shouldpossess it. It is true that I have lent money to some of the farmersround here, but the greater part of what they have put down for thepurchase of their holdings is savings,—money they had saved and earnedby working early and late, by careful farming and husbandry, by puttingmoney in the bank every quarter. You've had the same opportunity. Youhave preferred to waste your time and waste your money. You've had morethan one warning you know, Crockford."

"Aye, more than a dozen," Segerson muttered.

The man looked at them both and there was a dull hate gathering in hiseyes.

"It's easy to talk about saving money and working hard, you that havegot everything you want in life and no work to do," he protested "It'senough to make a man turn Socialist to listen to un."

"Mr. Crockford," Jane said, "I am a Socialist and if you take thetrouble to understand even the rudiments of socialism, you will learnthat the drones have as small a part in that scheme of life as in anyother. You have a right to what you produce. It is one of thepleasures of my life to help the deserving to enjoy what they produce.It is also one of the duties, when I find a non-productive personfilling a position to which his daily life and character do not entitlehim, to pull him up like a weed. That is my idea of socialism, Mr.Crockford. You will leave on March 25th."

They rode homeward into a gathering storm. A mass of black clouds wasrolling up from the north, and an unexpected wind came bellowing downthe coombs, bending the stunted oaks and dark pines and filling the airwith sonorous but ominous music. The hills around soon becameinvisible, blotted out by fragments of the gathering mists. The coldsleet stung their faces. Out on the moors was no sound but timetinkling of distant sheep bells.

"There's snow coming," Segerson muttered, as he turned up his coatcollar.

"It won't do any harm," she answered. "The earth lies warm under it."

The lights of Parracombe, precipitous and unexpected, were like flecksin the sky, wiped out by a sudden driving storm of sleet. A littlewhile later they cantered up the avenue to Woolhanger and Jane slippedfrom her horse with a little sigh of relief.

"You'd better stay and have some tea, Mr. Segerson," she invited.
"John will take your horse and give him a rubdown."

She changed her habit and, forgetting her guest, indulged in the luxuryof a hot bath. She descended some time later to find him sitting infront of the tea tray in the hall. A more than usually gracious smilesoon drove the frown from his forehead.

"I really am frightfully sorry," she apologised, as she handed him histea. "I had no idea I was so wet. You'll have rather a bad ride home."

"Oh, I'm used to it," he answered. "I'm afraid they'll lose a good manysheep on the higher farms, though, if the storm turns out as bad as itthreatens. Hear that!"

A tornado of wind seemed to shake the ground beneath their feet. Janeshivered.

"I suppose," she reflected, "that man Crockford thought I was very cruelto-day."

"I will tell you Crockford's point of view," Segerson replied. "Hedoesn't exactly understand what your aims are, and wherever he goes hehears nothing but praise of the way you have treated your tenants andthe way you have tried to turn them into small landowners. He isn'tintelligent enough to realise that there is a principle behind all this.He has simply come to feel that he has a lenient landlord and that hehas only to sit still and the plums will drop into his mouth, too.Crockford is one of the weak spots in your system, Lady Jane. There isno place for him or his kind in a self-supporting world."

She sighed.

"Then I am afraid he must go down," she said. "He simply stands in theway of better men."

"One reads a good deal of Mr. Tallente, nowadays," Segerson remarked,changing the conversation a little abruptly.

Jane leaned over and stroked the head of a dog which had come to lie ather feet.

"He seems to be making a good deal of stir," she observed.

The young man frowned.

"You know I am not unsympathetic with your views, Lady Jane," he said, alittle awkwardly, "but I don't mind admitting that if I had a big stakein the country I should be afraid of Tallente. No one seems to be ableto pin him down to a definite programme and yet day by day his influencegrows. The Labour Party is disintegrated. The best of all its factionsare joining the Democrats. He is practically leader of the OppositionParty to-day and I don't see how they are going to stop his being PrimeMinister whenever he chooses."

"Don't you think he'll make a good Prime Minister?" Jane asked.

"No, I don't," was the curt answer. "He is too dark a horse for myfancy."

"I expect Mr. Tallente will be ready with his programme when the timecomes," she observed. "He is a people's man, of course, and hisproposals will sound pretty terrible to a good many of the old school.Still, something of the sort has to come."

The butler brought in the postbag while they talked. Segerson, as herose to depart, glanced with curiosity at half a dozen orange-colouredwrappers which were among the rest of the letters.

"Fancy your subscribing to a press-cutting agency, Lady Jane!" heexclaimed. "You haven't been writing a novel under a pseudonym, haveyou?"

She laughed as she gathered up her correspondence in her hand.

"Don't pry into my secrets," she enjoined. "We may meet in Barnstapleto-morrow. If the weather clears, I want to go in and see those cattlefor myself."

The young man took his reluctant departure. Jane crossed the hall,entered her own little sanctum, drew the lamp to the edge of the tableand sank into her easy-chair with a little sigh of relief. All the restof her correspondence she threw to one side. The orange-colouredwrappers she tore off, one by one. As she read, her face softened andher eyes grew very bright. The first cutting was a report of Tallente'slast speech in the House, a clever and forceful attack upon theGovernment's policy of compromise in the matter of recent strikes. Thenext was a speech at the Holborn Town Hall, on workmen's dwellings,another a thoughtful appreciation of him from the pages of a greatreview. There was also a eulogy from an American journal and a gloomyattack upon him in the chief Whig organ. When she had finished thepile, she sat for some time gazing at the burning logs. The littleepitome of his daily life—there were records there even of many of hissocial engagements-seemed to carry her into another atmosphere, anatmosphere far removed from this lonely spot upon the moors. She seemedto catch from those printed lines some faint, reflective thrill of themore vital world of strife in which he was living. For a moment theroar of London was in her ears. She saw the lighted thoroughfares, thecrowded pavements, the faces of the men and women, all a little strainedand eager, so different from the placid immobility of the world in whichshe lived. She rose to her feet and moved restlessly about the room.Presently she lifted the curtain and looked out. There was a pause inthe storm and a great mass of black clouds had just been driven past theface of the watery moon. Even the wind seemed to be holding its breath,but so far as she could see, moors and hillsides were wrapped in oneunending mantle of snow. There was no visible sign of any humanhabitation, no sound from any of the birds or animals who were coweringin their shelters, not even a sheep hell or the barking of a dog tobreak the profound silence. She dropped the curtain and turned back toher chair. Her feet were leaden and her heart was heavy. The struggleof the day was at an end. Memory was asserting itself. She felt theflush in her cheek, the quickening heat of her heart, the thrill of herpulses as she lived again through those few wild minutes. There was nolonger any escape from the wild, confusing truth. The thing which shehad dreaded had come.

CHAPTER V

The most popular hostess in London was a little thrilled at the arrivalof the moment for which she had planned so carefully. She laid her handon Tallente's arm and led him towards a comparatively secluded corner ofthe winter garden which made her own house famous. "I must apologise,Mrs. Van Fosdyke," he said, "for my late appearance. I travelled upfrom Devonshire this afternoon and found snow all the way. We werenearly two hours late."

"It is all the more kind of you to have turned out at all, then," shetold him warmly. "I don't mind telling you that I should have beenterribly disappointed if you had failed me. It has been my one desirefor months to have you three—the Prime Minister, Lethbridge andyou—under my roof at the same time."

"You find politics interesting over here?" Tallente asked, a littlecuriously.

She flashed a quick glance at him.

"Why, I find them absolutely fascinating," she declared. "The wholething is so incomprehensible. Just look at to-night. Half of Debrettis represented here, practically the whole of the diplomats, and yet,except yourself, not a single member of the political party who we aretold will be ruling this country within a few months. The very anomalyof it is so fascinating."

"There is no necessary kinship between Society and politics," Tallentereminded her. "Your own country, for instance."

Mrs. Van Fosdyke, who was an American, shrugged her shoulders.

"My own country scarcely counts," she protested. "After all, we cameinto being as a republic, and our aristocracy is only a spuriousconglomeration of people who are too rich to need to work. But many ofthese people whom you see here to-night still possess feudal rights,vast estates, great names, and yet over their heads there is coming thisGovernment, in which they will be wholly unrepresented. What are yougoing to do with the aristocracy, Mr. Tallente?"

"Encourage them to work," he answered, smiling.

"But they don't know how."

"They must learn. No man has a right to his place upon the earth unlesshe is a productive human being. There is no room in the world which weare trying to create for the parasite pure and simple."

"You are a very inflexible person, Mr. Tallente."

"There is no place in politics for the wobbler."

"Do you know," she went on, glancing away for a moment, "that my roomsare filled with people who fear you. The Labour Party, as it wasunderstood here five or six years ago, never inspired that feeling.There was something of the tub-thumper about every one of them. I thinkit is your repression, Mr. Tallente, which terrifies them. You don'tsay what you are going to do. Your programme is still a secret and yetevery day your majority grows. Only an hour ago the Prime Minister toldme that he couldn't carry on if you threw down the gage in earnest."

Tallente remained bland, but became a little vague.

"I see Foulds amongst your guests," he observed. "Have you seen hisstatue of Perseus and Andromeda!'"

She laughed.

"I have, but I am not going to discuss it. Of course, I accept thehint, but as a matter of fact I am a person to be trusted. I ask for nosecrets. I have no position in this country. Even my sympathies are atpresent wobbling. I am simply a little thrilled to have you here,because the Prime Minister is within a few yards of us and I know thatbefore many weeks are past the great struggle will come between you andhim as to who shall guide the destinies of this country."

"You forget, Mrs. Van Fosdyke," he objected, "that I am not even theleader of my party. Stephen Dartrey is our chief."

She shook her head.

"Dartrey is a brilliant person," she admitted, "but we all know that heis not a practical politician. The battle is between you and Horlock."

Tallente was watching a woman go by, a woman in black and silver, whosewalk reminded him of Jane. His hostess followed his eyes.

"You are one of Alice Mountgarron's admirers?" she enquired.

"I don't even know her," he replied. "She reminded me of some one for amoment."

"She is one of the Duchess of Barminster's daughters," his companiontold him. "She married Mountgarron last year. Her sister, Lady Jane,is rather inclined towards your political outlook. She lives inDevonshire and tries to do good."

His eyes followed the woman in black and silver until she had passed outof sight. The family likeness was there, appealing to him curiously,tugging at his heartstrings. His artificial surroundings slipped easilyaway. He was back on the moors, he felt a sniff of the strong wind, thewholesome exaltation of the empty places. A more wonderful memory stillwas seeping in upon him. His companion intervened chillingly.

"One never sees your wife, nowadays, Mr. Tallente."

"My wife is in America." he answered mechanically. "She has gone thereto stay with some relatives."

"She is interested in politics?"

"Not in the least."

Mrs. Van Fosdyke welcomed a newcomer with a gracious little smile andTallente rose to his feet. Horlock had left the group in the centre ofthe room and was making his way towards them.

"At least we can talk here," he said, shaking hands with Tallente,"without any suggestion of a conspiracy. The old gang, you know," hewent on, addressing his hostess, "simply close around me when I try tohave a word with Tallente. They are afraid of some marvellouscombination which is going to shut them out."

"Lethbridge is the only one of them here to-night," She observed, "andhe is probably in one of the rooms where they are serving things. Now Imust go back to my guests. If I see him, I'll head him off."

She strolled away. The Prime Minister sank back upon a couch. His airof well-bred content with himself and life fell away from him the momenthis hostess was out of sight.

"Tallente," he said, "I suppose you mean to break us?"

"I thought we'd been rather friendly," was the quiet reply. "We've beenletting you have your own way for nearly a month."

"That is simply because we are on work which we are tackling practicallyin the fashion you dictated," Horlock pointed out. "When we havefinished this Irish business, what are you going to do?"

"I am not the leader of the party," Tallente reminded him.

"From a parliamentary point of view you are," was the impatient protest."Dartrey is a dreamer. He might even have dreamed away hisopportunities if you hadn't come along. Miller would never have handledthe House as you have. Miller was made to create factions. You weremade to coalesce, to smooth over difficulties, to bring men of oppositepoints of view into the same camp. You are a genius at it, Tallente.Six months ago I was only afraid of the Democrats. Now I dread them.Shall I tell you what it is that worries me most?"

"If you think it wise."

"Your absence of programme. Why don't you say what you want to do—giveus some idea of how far you are going to carry your tenets? Are we tohave the anarchy of Bolshevists or the socialism of Marx,—a red flagrepublic or a classical dictatorship?"

"We are not out for anarchy, at all events," Tallente assured him, "norfor revolutions in the ordinary sense of the word."

"You mean to upset the Constitution?"

"Speaking officially, I do not know. Speaking to you as a fellowpolitician, I should say that sooner or later some changes aredesirable."

"You'll never get away from party government."

"Perhaps not, but I dare say we can find machinery to prevent the houseof Commons being used for a debating society."

Horlock, whose sense of humour had never been entirely crushed by theexigencies of political leadership, suddenly grinned.

"The old gang will commit suicide," he declared. "If they aren'tallowed to spout, they'll either wither or die. Old man Lethbridge'smonthly attacks of high-minded patriotism are the only things that keephim alive."

"I don't fancy," Tallente remarked, "that we shall abandon any of ourprinciples for the sake of keeping Lethbridge alive."

"What the mischief are your principles?"

"No doubt Dartrey would enlighten you, if you chose to go to him," wasthe indifferent reply. "Within the course of the next few months weshall launch our thunderbolt. You will know then what we claim for thepeople."

"Hang the people!" Horlock exclaimed. "I've legislated for them myselfuntil I'm sick of it. They're never grateful."

"Perhaps you confine yourself too much to one class," Tallente observeddrily. "As a rule, the less intelligent the voter, the more easily heis caught by flashy legislation."

"The operative pure and simple," Horlock announced, "has no politicaloutlook. He'll never see beyond his trades union. You'll never found agreat national party with his aid."

His companion smiled.

"Then we shall fail and you will continue to be Prime Minister."

Mrs. Van Fosdyke came back to them, on the arm of a foreign diplomat.
She leaned over to Horlock and whispered:

"Lethbridge has heard that you two are here together and he is on yourtrack. Better separate."

She passed on. The two men strolled away.

"Have you any personal feeling against me, Tallente?" Horlock asked.

"None whatever," his companion assured him. "You did me the best turnin your life when you left me stranded after Hellesfield."

Horlock sighed.

"Lethbridge almost insisted, he looked upon you as a firebrand. He saidthere would be no repose about a Cabinet with you in it."

"Well, it's turned out for the best," Tallente remarked drily. "Aurevoir!"

On his way back to the reception rooms, an acquaintance tapped him onthe shoulder.

"One moment, Tallente. Lady Alice Mountgarron has asked me to presentyou."

Tallente bowed before the woman who stood looking at him pleasantly, buta little curiously. She held out her hand.

"I seem to have heard so much of you from my sister Jane," she said.
"You are neighbours in Devonshire, aren't you?"

"Neighbours from a Devon man's point of view," he answered. "I livehalf-way down a precipice, and she five miles away, at the back of aStygian moor, and incidentally a thousand feet above me."

"You seem to have surmounted such geographical obstacles."

"Your sister's friendship is worth greater efforts," Tallente replied.

Lady Alice smiled.

"I wish that some of you could persuade her to come to townoccasionally," she said. "Jane is a perfect dear, of course, and I knowshe does a great deal of good down there, but I can't help thinkingsometimes that she is a little wasted. Life must now and then be drearyfor her." Tallente seemed for a moment to be looking through the wallsof the room. "We are all made differently. Lady Jane is veryself-reliant and Devonshire is one of those counties which have acuriously strong local hold."

"But when her moors and her farms are under snow, and Woolhanger iswreathed in mists, and one hears nothing except the moaning of animalsin distress, what about the local attraction then?"

"You speak feelingly," Tallente observed, smiling. "I spent a fortnightwith Jane last winter," she explains. "I had some idea of hunting.Never again! Only I miss Jane. She is such a dear and I don't see halfenough of her."

"I saw her yesterday," Tallente said reminiscently. "This morning shetold me she was going to ride out to inspect for herself the farm of theone black sheep amongst her tenants. I looked out towards Woolhanger asI came up in the train. It seemed like a miasma of driven snow andmists."

"Every one to his tastes," Lady Alice observed, as she turned away witha friendly little nod. "I have just an idea, however, that thismorning's excursion was a little too much even for Jane."

"What do you mean?" Tallente asked eagerly. Lady Alice looked at himover the top of her fan. She was a woman of instinct. "I had atelegram from her just before I came out," she said. "There wasn't muchin it, but it gave me an idea that after all perhaps she is thinking ofa short visit to town. Come and see me, Mr. Tallente, won't you? Ilive in Mount Street—Number 17. My husband used to play cricket withyou, I think."

She passed on and Tallente stood looking after her for a moment, alittle dazed. A friend came up and took him by the arm.

"Unprotected and alone in the gilded halls of the enemy!" the newcomerexclaimed. "Come and have a drink. By the by, you look as though you'dhad good news."

"I have," Tallente assented, smiling.

"Then we'll drink to it—Mum'll. Not bad stuff. This way."

CHAPTER VI

Tallente, for the first time in his life, was dining a few eveningslater at Dartrey's house in Chelsea, and he looked forward with somecuriosity to this opportunity of studying his chief under differentauspices. Dartrey, notwithstanding the fact that he was a miracle ofpunctuality and devotion to duty, both at the offices in ParliamentStreet and at the House, seemed to have the gift of fading absolutelyout of sight from the ken of even his closest friends when the task ofthe day was accomplished. He excused himself always, courteously butfinally, from accepting anything whatever in the way of socialentertainment, he belonged to no clubs, and, if pressed, he franklyconfessed a predilection which amounted almost to passion for solitudeduring those hours not actually devoted to official duties. Theinvitation to dinner, therefore, was received by Tallente with somesurprise. He had grown into the habit of looking upon Dartrey as a manwho had no real existence outside the routine of their daily work. Hewelcomed with avidity, therefore, this opportunity of understanding alittle more thoroughly Dartrey's pleasant but elusive personality.

The house itself, situated in a Chelsea square of some repute, was smalland unostentatious, but was painted a spotless white and possessed, evenfrom the outside, an air of quiet and unassuming elegance. A trimmaid-servant opened the door and ushered him into a drawing-room of greyand silver, with a little faded blue in the silks of the French chairs.There were a few fine-point etchings upon the walls, a small grand pianoin a corner, and very little furniture, although the little there waswas French of the best period. There were no flowers and the atmospherewould have been chilly, but for the brightly burning fire. Tallente wasscarcely surprised when Dartrey's entrance alone indicated the factthat, as was generally supposed, he was free from family ties.

"I am a little early, I am afraid," Tallente remarked, as they shookhands.

"Admirably punctual," the other replied. "I shall make no apologies toyou for my small party. I have asked only Miss Miall and Miller to meetyou—just the trio of us who came to lure you out of your Devonshireparadise."

"Miller?" Tallente repeated, with instant comprehension.

"Yes! I was thinking, only the other day, that you scarcely see enoughof Miller."

"I see all that I want to," was Tallente's candid comment.

Dartrey laid his hand upon his guest's shoulder. In his sombre dinnergarb, with low, turned-down collar and flowing black tie, his grey-blackbeard cut to a point, his high forehead, his straightly brushed-backhair, which still betrayed its tendency to natural curls, he looked agreat deal more like an artist of the dreamy and aesthetic type than aman who had elaborated a new system of life and government.

"It is because of the feeling behind those words, Tallente," he said,"that I have asked you to meet him here to-night. Miller has hisobjectionable points, but he possesses still a great hold upon certaintypes of the working man. I feel that you should appreciate that alittle more thoroughly. The politician, as you should know better thanI, has no personal feelings."

"The politician is left with very few luxuries," Tallente replied, witha certain grimness.

Nora was announced, brilliant and gracious in a new dinner gown whichshe frankly confessed had ruined her, and close behind her Miller, alittle ungainly in his overlong dress coat and badly arranged white tie.It struck Tallente that he was aware of the object of the meeting andhis manner, obviously intended to be ingratiating, had still a touch ofself-conscious truculence.

They went into dinner, a few minutes later, and their host's tact inincluding Nora in the party was at once apparent. She talked brightlyof the small happenings of their day-by-day political life and bridgedover the moments of awkwardness before general conversation assumed itsnormal swing. Dartrey encouraged Miller to talk and they all listenedwhile he spoke of the mammoth trades unions of the north, where his holdupon the people was greatest. He spoke still bitterly of the war, fromthe moral effect of which, he argued, the working man had never whollyrecovered. Tallente listened a little grimly.

"The fervour of self-sacrifice and so-called patriotism which some ofthe proletariat undoubtedly felt at the outbreak of the war," Millerargued, "was only an incidental, a purely passing sensation compared tothe idle and greedy inertia which followed it. The war lost," he wenton, "might have acted as a lash upon the torpor of many of these men.Won, it created a wave of immorality and extravagance from which theyhad never recovered. They spent more than they had and they earned morethan they were worth. That is to say, they lived an unnatural life."

"It is fortunate, then," Tallente remarked, "that the new generation isalmost here."

"They, too, carry the taint," Miller insisted. Tallente lookedthoughtfully across towards his host.

"It seems to me that this is a little disheartening," he said. "It isexactly what one might have expected from Horlock or even Lethbridge.Miller, who is nearer to the proletariat than any of us, would have usbelieve that the people who should be the bulwark of the State are notfit for their position."

"I fancy," Dartrey said soothingly, "that Miller was talking more as aphilosopher than a practical man."

"I speak according to my experience," the latter insisted, a littledoggedly.

"Amongst your own constituents?" Tallente asked, with a faint smile,reminiscent of a recent unexpected defeat of one of Miller's partisansin a large constituency.

"Amongst them and others," was the somewhat acid reply. "Sands lost hisseat at Tenchester through the apathy of the very class for whom wefight."

"Tenchester is a wonderful place," Nora intervened. "I went down therelately to study certain phases of women's labour. Their factories aremodels and I found all the people with whom I came in contactexceptionally keen and well-informed."

Miller gnawed his moustache for a moment.

"Then I was probably unpopular there," he said. "I have to tell thetruth. Sometimes people do not like it."

The dinner was simply but daintily served. There were wines ofwell-known vintages and as the meal progressed Dartrey unbent. Eatingscarcely anything and drinking less, the purely intellectual stimulus ofconversation seemed to unloose his tongue and give to his pronouncementsa more pungent tone. Naturally, politics remained the subject ofdiscussion and Dartrey disclosed a little the reason for the meetingwhich he had arranged.

"The craft of politics," he pointed out, "makes but one inexorabledemand upon her followers—the demand for unity. The amazing thing isthat this is not generally realised. It seems the fashion, nowadays, todissent from everything, to cultivate the ego in its narrowest senserather than to try and reach out and grasp the hands of those around.The fault, I think, is in an over-developed theatrical sense, the desirewhich so many clever men have for individual notoriety. We Democratshave prospered because we have been free from it. We have been able tosink our individual prejudices in our cause. That is because our causehas been great enough. We aim so high, we see so clearly, that it israre indeed to find amongst us those individual differences which havebeen the ruin of every political party up to to-day. We have no Brownwho will not serve with Smith, no Robinson who declines to be associatedwith Jones. We forget the small things which are repugnant to us in afellowman, because of the great things which bind us together."

"To a certain extent, yes," Tallente agreed, with some reserve in histone, "yet we are all human. There are some prejudices which no man mayconquer. If he pretends he does, he only lives in an atmosphere offalsehood. The strong man loves or hates."

They took their coffee in their host's very fascinating study. Therewas little room here for decoration. The walls were lined with books,there were a few choice bronzes here and there, a statue of wonderfulbeauty upon the writing table, and a figure of Justice leaning withoutstretched arms over the world, presented to Dartrey by a great Frenchartist. For the rest, there were comfortable chairs, an ample fire, anda round table on which were set out coffee and liqueurs of many sorts.

"You will find that I am not altogether an anchorite," Dartrey observed,as they settled into their places.

"I am a lover of old brandy. The '68 I recommend especially, Tallente,and bring your chair round to the fire. There are cigars and cigarettesat your elbow. Miller, I think I know your taste. Help yourself, won'tyou?"

Miller drank crème de menthe and smoked homemade Virginia cigarettes.Tallente watched him and sighed. Then, suddenly conscious of his host'scritical scrutiny, he felt an impulse of shame, felt that his contemptfor the man had in it something almost snobbish. He leaned forward anddid his best. Miller had been a school-board teacher, an exhibitionerat college, and was possessed of a singular though limited intelligence.He could deal adequately with any one problem presented by itself andaffected only by local conditions, yet the more Tallente talked withhim, the more he realised his lack of breadth, his curious weakness ofjudgment when called upon to consider questions dependent upon varyingconsiderations. As to the right or wrong wording of a clause in theFactory Amendment Act, he could be lucid, explanatory and convincing; asto the justice of the same clause when compared with other forms oflegislation, he was vague and unconvincing, didactic and prejudiced. IfDartrey's object had been to bring these two men into closerunderstanding of each other, he was certainly succeeding. It isdoubtful, however, whether the understanding progressed entirely in thefashion he had desired. Nora, curled up in an easy-chair, affecting tobe sleepy, but still listening earnestly, felt at last that interventionwas necessary. The self-revelation of Miller under Tallente's surgicalquestioning was beginning to disturb even their host.

"I am being neglected," she complained. "If no one talks to me, I shallgo home."

Tallente rose at once and sat on the lounge by her side. Dartrey stoodon the hearth rug and plunged into an ingenious effort to reconcilevarious points of difference which had arisen between his two guests.Tallente all the time was politely acquiescent, Miller a little sullen.Like all men with brains acute enough to deal logically with aprocession of single problems, he resented because he failed altogetherto understand that a wider field of circumstances could possibly alterhuman vision.

Tallente walked home with Nora. They chose the longer way, by the
Embankment.

"This is the Cockney's antithesis to the moonlight and hills of youcountry folk," Nora observed, as she pointed to the yellow lightsgashing across the black water.

Tallente drew a long breath of content.

"It's good to be here, anyway. I am glad to be out of that house," heconfessed.

"I'm afraid," she sighed, "that our dear host's party was a failure.You and Miller were born in different camps of life. It doesn't seem tome that anything will ever bring you together."

"For this reason," Tallente explained eagerly. "Miller's outlook isnarrow and egotistical. He may be a shrewd politician, but there isn'ta grain of statesmanship in him. He might make an excellent chairman ofa parish council. As a Cabinet Minister he would be impossible."

"He will demand office, I am afraid," Nora remarked.

Tallente took off his hat. He was watching the lights from the twogreat hotels, the red fires from the funnel of a little tug, Mack andmysterious in the windy darkness.

"I am sick of politics," he declared suddenly. "We are a parcel offools. Our feet move day and night to the solemn music."

"You, of all men," she protested, "to be talking like this!"

"I mean it," he insisted, a little doggedly. "I have spent too many ofmy years on the treadmill. A man was born to be either an egoist andparcel out the earth according to his tastes, or to develop like Dartreyinto a dreamer.—Curse you!" he added, suddenly shaking his fist at thetall towers of the Houses of Parliament. "You're like an infernalboarding-school, with your detentions and impositions and castigations.There must be something beyond."

"A Cabinet Minister—" she began.

"The sixth form," he interrupted. "There's just one aspiration of lifeto be granted under that roof and to win it you are asked to stifle allthe rest. It isn't worth it."

"It's the greatest game at which men can play," she declared.

"And also the narrowest because it is the most absorbing," he answered."We have our triumphs there and they end in a chuckle. Don't you lovesunshine in winter, strange cities, pictures, pictures of another age,pictures which take your thoughts back into another world, architecturethat is not utilitarian, the faces of human beings on whom the strain oflife has never fallen? And women—women whose eyes will laugh intoyours, who haven't a single view in life, who don't care a fig aboutimproving their race, who want just love, to give and to take?"

She gazed at him in astonishment, a little carried away, her eyes soft,her lips parted.

"But you have turned pagan!" she cried.

"An instant's revolt against the methodism of life," he replied, hisfeet once more upon the earth. "But the feeling's there, all the same,"he went on doggedly. "I want to leave school. I have been there solong. It seems to me my holiday is overdue."

She passed her arm through his. She was a very clever and a veryunderstanding woman.

"That comes of your having ignored us," she murmured.

"It isn't my fault if I have," he reminded her.

"In a sense it is," she insisted. "The woman in your life should be themost beautiful part of it. You chose to make her the stepping-stone toyour ambition. Consequently you go through life hungry, you wait tillyou almost starve, and then suddenly the greatest things in the worldwhich lie to your hand seem like baubles."

"You are hideously logical," he grumbled.

They were walking slower now, within a few yards of the entrance to herflat. Both of them were a little disturbed,—she, full as she was withall the generous impulses of sensuous humanity, intensely awakened,intensely sympathetic.

"Tell me, where is your wife?" she asked.

"In America."

"It is hopeless with her?"

"Utterly and irretrievably hopeless."

"It has been for long?"

"For years."

"And for the sake of your principles," she went on, almost angrily,"your stupid, canonical and dry-as-dust little principles, you've letyour life shrivel up."

"I can't help it," he answered. "What would you have me do? Stand inthe market place and shout my needs?"

She clung to his arm. "You dear thing!" she said. "You're a greatbaby!"

They were in the shadow of the entrance to the flats. He suddenly bentover her; his lips were almost on hers. There was a frightened gleam inher eyes, but she made no movement of retreat. Suddenly he drew himselfupright.

"That wouldn't help, would it?" he said simply. "Thank you, all thesame, Nora. Good-by!"

On his table, when he entered his rooms that night, lay the letter forwhich he had craved. He opened it almost fiercely. The few linesseemed like a message of hope:

"Don't laugh at me, dear friend, but I am coming to London for a week ortwo, to my little house in Charles Street. I don't know exactly when.You will find time to come and see me?"

Here the mists seem to have fallen upon us like a shroud, and we can'tescape. I galloped many miles this morning, but it was like trying tofind the edge of the world.

Please call on my sister at 17 Mount Street. She likes you and wants tosee more of you.

JANE.

CHAPTER VII

For some weeks after his chief's dinner party, Tallente slackened alittle in his grim devotion to work. A strangely quiescent period ofday-by-day political history enabled him to be absent from his place inthe House for several evenings during the week, and although he spent agood many hours with Dartrey at Demos House, carefully discussing andelaborating next season's programme, he still found himself with time tospare, and with Jane's note buttoned up in his pocket, he deliberatelyturned his face towards life in its more genial and human aspect.

He dined one night at the club to which he had belonged for many years,a club frequented chiefly by distinguished literary men, successfulbarristers, and a sprinkling of actors. His arrival created at firstalmost a sensation, a slight feeling of constraint even, amongst thelittle gathering of men drinking their apéritifs in the lounge under thestairs. Somehow or other, there was a feeling that many of the old tieshad been broken. Tallente stood for new and menacing things inpolitics. He had to a certain extent cut himself adrift from the worldwhich starts at Eton and Oxford and ends by making mild puns on thejudicial bench, or uttering sonorous platitudes from a properlyaccredited seat in the House.

Tallente, fully appreciating the atmosphere, nevertheless made strenuousand not unsuccessful efforts to pick up the old threads. He abandonedeven the moderation of his daily life. He drank cocktails, champagneand port, laughed heartily at the stories of the day and ransacked hisbrain to cap them. Of bridge, unfortunately, he knew nothing, but heplayed pool with some success, and left the club late, leaving behindhim curiously mingled opinions as to the cause for this sudden return tohis old haunts.

He himself walked through the streets, on his way homeward, conscious ofat least partial success, feeling the pleasurable warmth of the wine hehad drunk and the companionship for which he had so strenuously sought.He found himself thinking almost enviously of the men with whom he hadassociated,—Philipson, with whom he had been at college, with threeplays running at different theatres, interested, even fascinated by hiswork, chaffing gaily with his principal actor as to the rendering ofsome of his lines. Then there was Fardell, also a schoolfellow, now apolice magistrate, full of dry and pleasant humour, called by hisintimates "The Beak "; Amberson, poseur and dilettante thirty years ago,but always a good fellow, now an acknowledged master of English proseand a critic whose word was unquestioned. These men, one and all,seemed to be up to the neck in life, kept young and human by the tasteof it upon their palate. The contemplation of their whole-sidedexistence, their sound combination of work and play, produced in him asort of jealousy, for he knew that there was something behind it, whichhe lacked.

The night was bright and dry and there were still crowds about LeicesterSquare, Piccadilly Circle and Piccadilly itself. As he walked, helooked into the faces of the women who passed him by, struggling againsthis old abhorrence as against one of the sickly offshoots of anover-eclectic epicureanism. They typified not vice but weakness, theunhappy result of man's inevitable revolt against unnatural laws. Yeteven then the mingled purity and priggishness encouraged by years ofrepression forbade any vital change in his sentiments. The tolerationfor which he sought, when it made its grudging appearance, was mingledwith dislike and distrust. He breathed more freely as he turned intothe quieter street in which his rooms were situated, passing them by,however, crossing Curzon Street and embarking upon a brief pilgrimagewhich had become almost a nightly one. Within a very few minutes hepaused before a certain number in a street even more secluded than hisown. At last the thing which he had so greatly anticipated hadhappened. There were lights in the house from top to bottom. Jane hadarrived!

He walked slowly back and forth several times. The music in his blood,stirred already by the wine he had drunk and the revival of oldmemories, moved to a new and more wonderful tune. He knew now, withoutany possibility of self-deception, exactly what he had been waiting for,exactly where all his thoughts and hopes for the future were centered.Was she there now, he wondered, gazing at the windows like a moon-struckboy. He lingered about and fate was kind to him.

A limousine swung around the corner and pulled up in front of the door,a few minutes later. The footman on the box sprang down. He heard hervoice as she said "Good-by" to some one. The car rolled smoothly away.She crossed the pavement with an involuntary glance at the tall,approaching figure.

"Jane!" he exclaimed.

She stood quite still, with the latch-key in her hand. The car was outof sight now and they seemed to be almost alone in the street. At firstthere was something almost unfamiliar in her rather startled face, hercoiffured hair, her bare neck with its collar of diamonds. There was amoment of suspense. Then he saw something flash into her eyes and hewas glad to be there.

"You?" she exclaimed, a little breathlessly. He plunged intoexplanations.

"My rooms are close by here in Charges Street," he told her. "I waswalking home from the club and saw you step out of the car."

"How could you know that I was coming to-day?" she asked. "I onlytelephoned Alice after I arrived."

"To tell you the truth," he confessed, "I have got into the habit ofwalking this way home, in case—well, to-night I have my reward."

She turned the key in the latch and pushed the door open.

"You must come in," she invited.

"Isn't it too late?"

"What does that matter so long as I ask you?"

He followed her gladly into the hall, closing the door behind him.

"That wretched switch is somewhere near here," she said, feeling alongthe wall.

Her fingers suddenly met his and stayed passive in his grasp. Sheturned a little around as she realised the nearness of him.

"Jane," he whispered, "I have wanted you so much."

For a single moment she rested in his arms,—a wonderful moment,inexplicable, voluptuous, stirring him to the very depths. Then sheslipped away. Her fingers sought the wall once more and the place wasflooded with light.

"You must come in here for a moment," she said, opening the nearestdoor. "I shall not ask you to share my milk, and I am afraid I don'tknow where to get you a whisky and soda, but you can light a cigaretteand just tell me how things are and when you are coming to see me."

He followed her into a comfortable little apartment, furnished inmid-Victorian fashion, but with an easy-chair drawn up to the brightlyburning fire. On a table near was a glass of milk and some biscuits.The ermine cloak slipped from her shoulders. She stood with one footupon the fender, half turned towards him. His eyes rested upon her,filled with a great hunger.

"Well?" she queried.

"You are wonderful," he murmured.

She laughed and for a moment her eyes fell.

"But, my dear man," she said, "I don't want compliments. I want to knowthe news."

"There is none," he answered. "We are marking time while Horlock digshis own grave."

"You have been amusing yourself?"

"Indifferently. I dined the other night with Dartrey, to-night at theSheridan Club. The most exciting thing in the twenty-four hours hasbeen my nightly pilgrimage round here."

"How idiotic!" she laughed. "Supposing you had not happened to meet me?
You could scarcely have rung my bell at this hour of the night."

"I should have been content to have seen the lights and to have knownthat you had arrived."

"You dear man!" she exclaimed, with a sudden smile, a smile of entireand sweet friendliness. "I like the thought of your doing that. It issomething to know that one is welcome, when one breaks away from theroutine of one's life, as I have."

"Tell me why you have done it?" he asked.

She looked back into the fire.

"Everything was going a little wrong," she explained. "One of myfarmers was troublesome, and the snow has stopped work and hunting. Welost thirty of our best ewes last week. I found I was getting out oftemper with everybody and everything, so I suddenly remembered that Ihad an empty house here and came up."

"To the city of adventures," he murmured.

She shrugged her shoulders.

"London has never seemed like that to me. I find it generally a veryugly and a very sordid place, where I am hedged in with relatives,generally wanting me to do the thing I loathe.—You have really no newsfor me, then?"

"None, except that I am glad to see you."

"When will you come and have a long talk?"

"Will you dine with me to-morrow night?" he begged eagerly. "In theafternoon I have committee meetings. Thursday afternoon you could comedown to the House, if you cared to."

"Of course I should, but hadn't you better dine here?" she suggested.
"I can ask Alice and another man."

"I want to see you alone," he insisted, "for the first time, at anyrate."

"Then will you take me to that little place you told me of in Soho?" shesuggested. "I don't want a whole crowd to know that I am in town justyet. Don't think that it sounds vain, but people have such a habit ofalmost carrying one off one's feet. I want to prowl about London and doordinary things. One or two theatres, perhaps, but no dinner parties.I shan't stay long, I don't suppose. As soon as I hear from Mr.Segerson that the snow has gone and that terrible north wind has diedaway, I know I shall be wanting to get back."

"You are very conscientious about your work there," he complained."Don't you ever realise that you may have an even more important missionhere?"

For a single moment she seemed troubled. Her manner, when she spoke,had lost something of its calm graciousness.

"Really?" she said. "Well, you must tell me all about it to-morrownight. I shall wear a hat and you must not order the dinner beforehand.I don't mind your ordering the table, because I like a corner, but wemust sail into the place just like any other two wanderers. It isagreed?"

He bent over her fingers. His good angel and his instinct ofsensibility, which was always appraising her attitude towards him,prompted his studied farewell.

"You will let yourself out?" she begged. "I have taken off my cloak and
I could not face that wind."

"Of course," he answered. "I shall call for you at a quarter to eightto-morrow night. I only wish I could make you understand what it meansto have that to look forward to."

"If you can make me believe that," she answered gravely, "perhaps Ishall be glad that I have come."

CHAPTER VIII

Whilst Tallente, rejuvenated, and with a wonderful sense of well-beingat the back of his mind, was on his feet in the House of Commons on thefollowing afternoon, leading an unexpected attack against theunfortunate Government, Dartrey sat at tea in Nora's study. Nora, whohad had a very busy day, was leaning back in her chair, well contentthough a little fatigued. Dartrey, who had forgotten his lunch in thestress of work, was devoting himself to the muffins.

"While I think of it," he said, "let me thank you for playing hostess socharmingly the other night."

She made him a little bow.

"Your dinner party was a great success."

"Was it?" he murmured, a little doubtfully. "I am not quite so sure. Ican't seem to get at Tallente, somehow."

"He is doing his work well, isn't he?"

"The mechanical side of it is most satisfactory," Dartrey confessed.
"He is the most perfect Parliamentary machine that was ever evolved."

"Surely that is exactly what you want? You were always complaining thatthere was no one to bring the stragglers into line."

"For the present," Dartrey admitted, "Tallente is doing excellently. Iwish, though, that I could see a little farther into the future."

"Tell me exactly what fault you find with him?" Nora persisted.

"He lacks enthusiasm already. He makes none of the mistakes which arecoincident with genius and he is a little intolerant. He takes notrouble to adapt himself to varying views, he has a fine, broad outlook,but no man can see into every corner of the earth, and what is outsidehis outlook does not exist."

"Anything else?"

"He is not happy in his work. There is something wanting in his schemeof life. I have built a ladder for him to climb. I have given him thechance of becoming the greatest statesman of to-day. One would thinkthat he had some other ambition."

Nora sighed. She looked across at her visitor a little diffidently.

"I can help you to understand Andrew Tallente," she declared. "Hiscondition is the greatest of all tributes to my sex. He has had anunhappy married life. From forty to fifty he has borne itphilosophically as a man may. Now the reaction has come. With thefirst dim approach of age, he becomes suddenly terrified for the thingshe is missing."

Dartrey was thoughtful.

"I dare say you are right," he admitted, "but if he needs an Aspasia,surely she could be found?"

Nora rested her head upon her fingers. She seemed to be watchingintently the dancing flames. Her broad, womanly forehead was troubled,her soft brown eyes pensive.

"He is fifty years old," she said. "It is rather an anomalous age. Atfifty a man's taste is almost hypercritical and his attraction to my sexis on the wane. No, the problem isn't so easy."

Dartrey had finished tea and was feeling for his cigarette case.

"I rather fancied, Nora, that he was attracted by you."

"Well, he isn't, then," she replied, with a smile.

"He was rather by way of thinking that he was, the other night, but thatwas simply because he was in a curiously unsettled state and he feltthat I was sympathetic."

"You are a very clever woman, Nora," he said, looking across at her.
"You could make him care for you if you chose."

"Is that to be my sacrifice to the cause?" she asked. "Am I to give mysoul to its wrong keeper, that our party may flourish?"

"You don't like Tallente?"

"I like him immensely," she contradicted vigorously. "If I weren'thopelessly in love with some one else, I could find it perfectly easy totry and make life a different place for him."

He looked at her with trouble in his kind eyes. It was as though he hadsuddenly stumbled upon a tragedy.

"I have never guessed this about you, Nora," he murmured.

"You are not observant of small things," she answered, a littlebitterly.

"Who is the man?"

"That I shall not tell you."

"Do I know him?"

"Less, I should say, than any one of your acquaintance."

He was silent for a moment or two. Then it chanced that the telephonerang for him, with a message from the House of Commons. He gave someinstructions to his secretary.

"It is a queer thing," he remarked, as he replaced the receiver, "howfar our daily work and our ambitions take us out of our immediateenvironment. I see you day by day, Nora, I have known you intimatelysince your school days—and I never guessed."

"You never guessed and I have no time to suffer," she answered. "So wego on until the breaking time comes, until one part of ourselvesconquers and the other loses. It is rather like that just now withAndrew Tallente. A few more years and it will probably be like thatwith me."

He threw his cigarette away as though the flavour had suddenly becomedistasteful and sat drumming with his fingers upon the table, his eyesfixed upon Nora.

"Tallente's position," he said thoughtfully, "one can understand. He ismarried, isn't he, and with all the splendid breadth of his intellectualoutlook he is still harassed by the social fetters of his birth andbringing up. I can conceive Tallente as a person too highminded to seekto evade the law and too scornful for intrigue. But you, Nora, how isit that your love brings you unhappiness? You are young and free, andsurely," he concluded, with a little sigh, "when you choose you can makeyourself irresistible."

She looked at him with a peculiar light in her eyes.

"I have proved myself very far from being irresistible," she declared."The man for whose love my whole being is aching to-day is absolutelyunawakened as to my desirability. I enjoy with him the most impersonalfriendship in which two people of opposite sexes ever indulged."

"I thought that I was acquainted with all your intimates," Dartreyobserved, in a puzzled tone. "Let me meet this man and judge formyself, Nora."

"Do you mean that?" she asked.

"Certainly."

"Very well, then," she acquiesced, "I'll ask him to dinner here. Whenare you free?"

He glanced through a thin memorandum book.

"On Sunday night?"

"At eight o'clock," she said. "You won't mind a simple dinner, I know.I can promise you that you will be interested. My friend is worthknowing."

Dartrey took his departure a little hurriedly. He had suddenlyremembered an appointment at his committee rooms and went off with hismind full of the troubles of a northern constituency. On his way upParliament Street he met Miller, who turned and walked by his side.

"Heard the news?" the latter asked curtly. "No. Is there any?" was thequick reply.

"Tallente's broken the truce," Miller announced. "There was rather anacid debate on the Compensation Clauses of Hensham's Allotment Bill.Tallente pulled them to pieces and then challenged a division. TheGovernment Whips were fairly caught napping and were beaten by twelvevotes." Dartrey's eyes flashed.

"Tallente is a most wonderful tactician," he said. "This is the secondtime he's forced the Government into a hole. Horlock will never lastthe session, at this rate."

"There are rumours of a resignation, of course," Miller went on, "butthey aren't likely to go out on a snatched division like this."

"We don't want them to," Dartrey agreed. "All the time, though, thissort of thing is weakening their prestige. We shall be ready to givethem their coup de grace in about four months."

The two men were silent for a moment. Then Miller spoke again a littleabruptly.

"I can't seem to get on with Tallente," he confessed.

"I am sorry," Dartrey regretted. "You'll have to try, Miller. We can'tdo without him."

"Try? I have tried," was the impatient rejoinder. "Tallente may havehis points but nature never meant him to be a people's man. He's toohidebound in convention and tradition. Upon my soul, Dartrey, he makesme feel like a republican of the bloodthirsty age, he's so blastedsuperior!"

"You're going back to the smaller outlook, Miller," his chiefexpostulated. "These personal prejudices should be entirely negligible.I am perfectly certain that Tallente himself would lay no stress uponthem."

"Stress upon them? Damn it, I'm as good as he is!" Miller exclaimedirritably. "There's no harm in Tallente's ratting, quitting his orderand coming amongst us Democrats, but what I do object to is his bringingthe mannerisms and outlook of Eton and Oxford amongst us. When I amwith him, he always makes me feel that I am doing the wrong thing andthat he knows it."

Dartrey frowned a little impatiently.

"This is rubbish, Miller," he pronounced. "It is you who are to blamefor attaching the slightest importance to these trifles."

"Trifles!" Miller growled. "Within a very short time, Dartrey, thisquestion will have to be settled. Does Tallente know that I am promiseda seat in his Cabinet?"

"I think that he must surmise it."

"The sooner he knows, the better," Miller declared acidly. "Tallentecan unbend all right when he likes. He was dining at the Trocadero theother night with Brooks and Ainley and Parker and Saunderson—the mostcheerful party in the place. Tallente seemed to have slipped out ofhimself, and yet there isn't one of those men who has ever had a day'sschooling or has ever worn anything but ready-made clothes. He leaveshis starch off when he's with them. What's the matter with me, I shouldlike to know? I'm a college man, even though I did go as anexhibitioner. I was a school teacher when those fellows were wieldingpick-axes."

Dartrey looked at his companion thoughtfully. For a single moment thewords trembled upon his lips which would have brought things to aninstant and profitless climax. Then he remembered the million or so ofpeople of Miller's own class and way of thinking, to whom he was aleading light, and he choked back the words.

"I find this sort of conversation a little peevish, Miller," he said.
"As soon as any definite difference of opinion arises between you and
Tallente, I will intervene. At present you are both doing good work.
Our cause needs you both."

"You won't forget how I stand?" Miller persisted, as they reached theirdestination.

"No one has ever yet accused me of breaking my word," was the somewhatchilly rejoinder. "You shall have your pound of flesh."

CHAPTER IX

Jane leaned back in her chair, drew off her gloves and looked around herwith an appreciative smile. She had somehow the subtle air of beingeven more pleased with herself and her surroundings than she was willingto admit. Every table in the restaurant was occupied. The waiters werebusy: there was an air of gaiety. A faint smell of cookery hung aboutthe place and its clients were undeniably a curious mixture of thebourgeois and theatrical. Nevertheless, she was perfectly content andsmiled her greetings to the great Monsieur George, who himself broughttheir menu.

"We want the best of your ordinary dishes," Tallente told him, "andremember that we do not come here expecting Ritz specialities or a Savoychef d'oeuvre. We want those specialhors d'oeuvres which you knowall about, a sole grilleda la maison, a plainly roasted chicken withan endive salad. The sweets are your affair. The savoury must be acheese soufflé. And for wine—"

He broke off and looked across the table. Jane smiled apologetically.

"You will never bring me out again," she declared. "I want somechampagne."

"I never felt more like it myself," he agreed. "ThePommery, George,slightly iced, an aperitif now, and the dinner can take its course. Wewill linger over thehors d'oeuvres and we are in no hurry."

George departed and Tallente smiled across at his companion. It was awonderful moment, this. His steady success of the last few months, thetriumph of the afternoon had never brought him one of the thrills whichwere in his pulses at that moment, not one iota of the pleasurable senseof well-being which was warming his veins. The new menace which hadsuddenly thrown its shadow across his path was forgotten. Governmentsmight come or go, a career be made or broken upon the wheel. He wasalone with Jane.

"Now tell me all the news at Woolhanger?" he asked.

"Woolhanger lies under a mantle of snow," she told him. "There is awind blowing there which seems to have come straight from the ice of theNorth Pole and sounds like the devil playing bowls amongst the hills."

"The hunting?"

"All stopped, of course. A few nights ago, two stags came right up tothe house and quite a troop of the really wild ponies from overHawkbridge way. We've never had such a spell of cold in my memory. Itreminded one of the snowstorm in 'Lorna Doone.'—But after all, I toldyou all about Woolhanger last night. I want your news."

"I seem to have settled down with the Democrats," he told her. "I do mybest to keep the party in line. The great trades unions are, of course,our chief difficulty, but I think we are making progress even with them.Some of the miners' representatives dined with me at the Trocadero theother night. Good fellows they are, too. There is only one greatdifficulty," he went on, "in the consolidation of my party, and that isto get a little more breadth into the views of these men who representthe leading industries. They are obsessed with the duties that they oweto their own artificers and the labour connected with the particularindustry they represent. It is hard to make them see the importance ofany other subject. Yet we need these very men as lawmakers. I wantthem to study production and the laws of production from a universalpoint of view."

"I can quite understand," she acquiesced sympathetically, "that you havea difficult class of men to deal with. Tell me what the evening papersmean by their placards?"

"We had a small tactical success against the Government this afternoon,"he explained. "It doesn't really amount to anything. We are not readyfor their resignation at the moment, any more than they are ready toresign."

"You are an object of terror to all my people," she confided smilingly."They say that Horlock dare not go to the country and that you couldturn him out to-morrow if you cared to."

"So much for politics," he remarked drily.

"So much for politics," she assented. "And now about yourself?"

"A little finger of flame burning in an empty place," he sighed. "Thatis how life seems to me when I take my hand off the plough."

She answered him lightly, but her face softened and her eyes shone withsympathy.

"Aren't you by way of being just a little sentimental?"

"Perhaps," he admitted. "If I am, let me feel the luxury of it."

"One reads different things of you."

"For instance?"

"Town Topics says that you have become an interesting figure at manysocial functions. You must meet attractive people there."

"I only wish that I could find them so," he answered. "London has beenalmost feverishly gay lately and every one seems to have discovered avogue for entertaining politicians. There seems to be a sort of ideathat dangerous corners may be rubbed off us by a judicious applicationof turtle soup and champagne."

"Cynic!" she scoffed pleasantly.

"Well, I don't know," he went on. "From any other point of view, someof the entertainments to which I have been bidden appear utterly withoutmeaning. However, it is part of my programme to prove to the world thatwe Democrats can open our arms wide enough to include every class inlife. Therefore, I go to many places I should otherwise avoid. I havestudied the attitude of the younger women whom I have approached, purelyimpersonally and without the slightest hypersensitiveness. They haveall been perfectly pleasant, perfectly disposed for conversation or anyof the usual social amenities. But they know that I have in thebackground a wife. To flirt with a married man of fifty isn't worthwhile."

"It appears to me," she said, with a slight note of severity in hertone, "that you have set your mind upon having a perfectly frivoloustime."

"Not at all," he objected. "I have simply been experimenting."

The service of dinner had now commenced, and with George in thebackground, a haughty head waiter a few yards off, and a myrmidonhanding them their dishes with a beatific smile, the conversationdrifted naturally into generalities. When they resumed their moreintimate talk, Tallente felt himself inspired by an ever-increasingadmiration for his companion and her adaptability. During this briefinterval he had seen many admiring and some wondering glances directedtowards Jane and he realised that she was somehow a person entirelyapart from any of the others, more beautiful, more distinguished, moredesirable. Of the Lady Jane ruling at Woolhanger with a high hand,there was no trace. She looked out upon the gay room with itsvoluptuous air, its many couples and little parties carrées, with thefriendly and sympathetic interest of one who finds herself in agreeablesurroundings and whose only desire is to come into touch with them. Herplain black gown, her simple hat with its single quill, the pearls whichwere her sole adornment, all seemed part of her. She appeared whollyunconscious of the admiration she excited. She who was sometimesinclined, perhaps, to carry herself a little haughtily in her mother'sdrawing-room, was here only anxious to share in the genial atmosphere offriendliness which the general tone of her surroundings seemed todemand.

"Well, what was the final result of your efforts towards companionship?"she enquired, after they had praised the chicken enthusiastically andthe wave of service had momentarily ebbed kitchenwards.

"They have led me to only one conclusion," he answered swiftly.

"Which is?"

"That if you remain on Exmoor and I in Westminster, the affairs of thiscountry are not likely to prosper."

She laughed softly.

"As though I made any real' difference!"

Then she saw a transformed man. The firm mouth suddenly softened, thekeen bright eyes glowed. A light shone out of his worn face which fewhad ever seen there.

"You make all the difference," he whispered. "You of your mercy cansave me from the rocks. I have discovered very late in life, too late,many would say, that I cannot build the temples of life with hands andbrain alone. Even though the time be short and I have so little tooffer, I am your greedy suitor. I want help, I want sympathy, I wantlove."

There was nothing whatever left now of Lady Jane of Woolhanger.Segerson would probably not have recognised his autocratic mistress.The most timid of her tenant farmers would have adopted a bold frontwith her. She was simply a very beautiful woman, trembling a little,unsteady, nervous and unsure of herself.

"Oh, I wish you hadn't said that!" she faltered.

"But I must say it," he insisted, with that alien note of tendernessstill throbbing in his tone. "You are not a dabbler in life. You havenever been afraid to stand on your feet, to look at it whole. There isthe solid, undeniable truth. It is a woman's glory to help men on tothe great places, and the strangest thing in all the world is that thereis only one woman for any one man, and for me—you are the only onewoman."

Around them conversation had grown louder, the blue cloud of tobaccosmoke more dense, the odour of cigarettes and coffee more pungent. Downin the street a wandering musician was singing a little Neapolitan lovesong. They heard snatches of it as the door downstairs was opened.

"You have known me for so short a time," she argued. "How can youpossibly be sure that I could give you what you want? And in any case,how could I give anything except my eager wishes, my friendship—perhaps,if you will, my affection? But would that bring you content?"

"No!" he answered unhesitatingly. "I want your love, I want youyourself. You have played a woman's part in life. You haven't beencontent to sit down and wait for what fate might bring you. You haveworked out your own destiny and you have shown that you have courage.Don't disprove it."

She looked him in the eyes, very sweetly, but with the shadow of a greatdisturbance in her face.

"I want to help you," she said. "Indeed, I feel more than you canbelieve—more than I could have believed possible—the desire, thelonging to help. But what is there you can ask of me beyond my hand inyours, beyond all the comradeship which a woman who has more in herheart than she dare own, can give?"

Once more the door was opened below. The voice of the singer camefloating up. Then it was closed again and the little passionate cryblotted out. His lips moved but he said nothing. It seemed suddenly,from the light in his face, that he might have been echoing those wordswhich rang in her ears. She trembled and suddenly held her hand acrossthe table.

"Hold my fingers," she begged. "These others will think that we havemade a bet or a compact. What does it matter? I want to give you allthat I can. Will you be patient? Will you remember that you have foundyour way along a very difficult path to a goal which no one yet has everreached? I could tell you more but may not that be enough? I want youto have something to carry away with you, something not too cold,something that burns a little with the beginnings of life and love, and,if you will, perhaps hope. May that content you for a little while, foryou see, although I am not a girl, these things, and thoughts of thesethings, are new to me?"

He drew a little breath. It seemed to him that there was no morebeautiful place on earth than this little smoke-hung corner of therestaurant. The words which escaped from his lips were vibrant,tremulous.

"I am your slave. I will wait. There is no one like you in the world."

CHAPTER X

Tallente found a distant connection of his waiting for him in hisrooms, on his return from the House at about half-past six,—SpencerWilliams, a young man who, after a brilliant career at Oxford, hadbecome one of the junior secretaries to the Prime Minister. The youngman rose to his feet at Tallente's entrance and hastened to explain hisvisit.

"You'll forgive my waiting, sir," he begged. "Your servant told me thatyou were dining out and would be home before seven o'clock to change."

"Quite right, Spencer," Tallente replied. "Glad to see you. Whisky andsoda or cocktail?"

The young man chose a whisky and soda, and Tallente followed suit,waving his visitor back into his chair and seating himself opposite.

"Get right into the middle of it, please," he enjoined.

"To begin with, then, can you break your engagement and come and dinewith the Chief?"

"Out of the question, even if it were a royal command," was the firmreply. "My engagement is unbreakable."

"The Chief will be sorry," Williams said. "So am I. Will you go roundto Downing Street and see him afterwards?"

"I could," Tallente admitted, "but why? I have nothing to say to him.I can't conceive what he could have to say to me. There are alwayspressmen loitering about Downing Street, who would place the wrongconstruction on my visit. You saw all the rubbish they wrote because heand I talked together for a quarter of an hour at Mrs. Van Fosdyke's?"

"I know all about that," Williams assented, "but this time, Tallente,there's something in it. The Chief quarrelled with you for the sake ofthe old gang. Well, he made a bloomer. The old gang aren't worthsix-pence. They're rather a hindrance than help to legislation, andwhen they're wanted they're wobbly, as you saw this afternoon.Lethbridge went into the lobby with you."

Tallente smiled a little grimly.

"He took particularly good care that I should know that."

"Well, there you are," Williams went on. "The Chief's fed up. I cantalk to you here freely because I'm not an official person. Can youdiscuss terms at all for a rapprochement?"

"Out of the question!"

"You mean that you are too much committed to Dartrey and the Democrats?"

"'Committed' to them is scarcely the correct way of putting it,"
Tallente objected. "Their principles are in the main my principles.
They stand for the cause I have championed all my life. Our alliance is
a natural, almost an automatic one."

"It's all very well, sir," Williams argued, "but Dartrey stands for aLabour Party, pure and simple. You can't govern an Empire by parishcouncil methods."

"That is where the Democrats come in," Tallente pointed out. "Theyhave none of the narrower outlook of the Labour Party as you understandit—of any of the late factions of the Labour Party, perhaps I shouldsay. The Democrats possess an international outlook. When theylegislate, every class will receive its proper consideration. No classwill be privileged. A man will be ranked according to his production."

Williams smiled with the faint cynicism of clairvoyant youth.

"Sounds a little Utopian, sir," he ventured. "What about Miller?"

"Well, what about him?"

"Are you going to serve with him?"

"Really," Tallente protested, "for a political opponent, or therepresentative of a political opponent, you're a trifle on theinquisitive side."

"It's a matter that you'll have to face sometime or other," the youngman asserted. "I happen to know that Dartrey is committed to Miller."

"I don't see how you can happen to know anything of the sort," Tallentedeclared, a little bluntly. "In any case, Spencer, my politicalassociation or nonassociation with Miller is entirely my own affair, andyou can hook it. Remember me to all your people, and give my love toMuriel."

"Nothing doing, eh?" Williams observed, rising reluctantly to his feet.

"You have perception," Tallente replied.

"The Chief was afraid you might be a little difficult about aninterview. Those pressmen are an infernal nuisance, anyway. What aboutsneaking into Downing Street at about midnight, in a cloak and slouchhat, eh?"

"Too much of the cinema about you, young fellow," Tallente scoffed.
"Run along now. I have to dress."

Tallente held out his hand good-humouredly. His visitor made noimmediate motion to take it.

"There was just one thing more I was asked to mention, sir," he said."I will be quite frank if I may. My instructions were not to allude toit if your attitude were in the least conciliatory."

"Go on," Tallente bade him curtly.

"There has been a rumour going about that some years ago—while the warwas on, in fact—you wrote a very wonderful attack upon the tradesunions. This attack was so bitter in tone, so damning in some of itsfacts, and, in short, such a wonderful production, that at the lastmoment the late Prime Minister used his influence with you to suspendits publication. It was held over, and in the meantime the attitude ofthe trades unions towards certain phases of the war was modified, andthe collapse of Germany followed soon afterwards. Consequently, thatarticle was never published."

"You are exceedingly well informed," Tallente admitted. "Pray proceed."

"There is in existence," the young man continued, "a signed copy of thatarticle. Its publication at the present moment would probably make yourposition with the Democratic Party untenable."

"Is this a matter of blackmail?" Tallente asked.

The young man stiffened.

"I am speaking on behalf of the Prime Minister, sir. He desired me toinform you that the signed copy of that article has been offered to himwithin the last few days."

Tallente was silent for several moments. The young man's subtleintimation was a shock in more ways than one.

"The manuscript to which you refer," he said at last, "was stolen frommy study at Martinhoe under somewhat peculiar conditions."

"Perhaps you would like to explain those conditions to Mr. Horlock,"
Williams suggested.

Tallente held open the door.

"I shall not seek out your Chief," he said, "but I will tell him thetruth about that manuscript if at any time we should come together. Inthe meantime, I am perfectly in accord with the view which your Chief nodoubt holds concerning it. The publication of that article at thepresent moment would inevitably end my connection with the DemocraticParty and probably close my political career. This is a position whichI should court rather than submit to blackmail direct or indirect."

"My Chief will resent your using such a word, sir," Williams declared.

"Your Chief could have avoided it by a judicious use of the waste-paperbasket and an exercise of the gift of silence." Tallente retorted, asthe young man took his departure.

Horlock came face to face with Tallente the following afternoon, in oneof the corridors of the House and, scarcely troubling about aninvitation, led him forcibly into his private room. He turned hissecretary out and locked the door.

"A cigar?" he suggested.

Tallente shook his head.

"I want to see what's doing, in a few minutes," he said.

"I can tell you that," Horlock declared. "Nothing at all! I was justoff when I happened to see you. You're looking very fit and pleasedwith yourself. Is it because of that rotten trick you played on us theother day?"

"Rotten? I thought it was rather clever of me," Tallente objected.

"Perfectly legitimate, I suppose," the other assented grudgingly.
"That's the worst of having a tactician in opposition."

"You shouldn't have let me get there," was the quick retort.

Horlock drew a paper knife slowly down between his fingers.

"I sent Williams to you yesterday."

"You did. A nice errand for a respectably brought-up young man!"

"Chuck that, Tallente."

"Why? I didn't misunderstand him, did I?"

"Apparently. He told me that you used the word 'blackmail.'"

"I don't think the dictionary supplies a milder equivalent."

"Tallente," said Horlock with a frown, "we'll finish with this once andfor ever. I refused the offer of the manuscript in question."

"I am glad to hear it," was the laconic reply.

"Leaving that out of the question, then, I suppose there's no chance ofyour ratting?"

"Not the faintest. I rather fancy I've settled down for good."

Horlock lit a cigarette and leaned back in his chair.

"No good looking impatient, Tallente," he said. "The door's locked andyou know it. You'll have to listen to what I want to say. A fewminutes of your time aren't much to ask for."

"Go ahead," Tallente acquiesced.

"There is only one ambition," Horlock continued, "for an earnestpolitician. You know what that is as well as I do. Wouldn't you soonerbe Prime Minister, supported by a recognised and reputable politicalparty, than try to pull the chestnuts out of the fire for your friendsDartrey, Miller and company?"

"So this is the last bid, eh?" Tallente observed.

"It's the last bid of all," was the grave answer. "There is nothingmore."

"And what becomes of you?"

"One section of the Press will say that I have shown self-denial andpatriotism greater than any man of my generation and that my name willbe handed down to history as one of the most single-minded statesmen ofthe day. Another section will say that I have been forced into awell-deserved retirement and that it will remain a monument to myeverlasting disgrace that I brought my party to such straits that it wasobliged to compromise with the representative of an untried and unprovenconglomeration of fanatics. A third section—"

"Oh, chuck it!" Tallente interrupted. "Horlock, I appreciate your offerbecause I know that there is a large amount of self-denial in it, but Iam glad of an opportunity to end all these discussions. My word ispassed to Dartrey."

"And Miller?" the Prime Minister asked, with calm irony.

Tallente felt the sting and frowned irritably.

"I have had no discussions of any sort with Miller," he answered. "Hehas never been represented to me as holding an official position in theparty."

"If you ever succeed in forming a Democratic Government," Horlock said,"mark my words, you will have to include him."

"If ever I accept any one's offer to form a Government," Tallentereplied, "it will be on one condition and one condition only, which isthat I choose my own Ministers."

"If you become the head of the Democratic Party," Horlock pointed out,"you will have to take over their pledges."

"I do not agree with you," was the firm reply, "and further, I suggestmost respectfully that this discussion is not agreeable to me."

An expression of hopelessness crept into Horlock's face.

"You're a good fellow, Tallente," he sighed, "and I made a big mistakewhen I let you go. I did it to please the moderates and you know howthey've turned out. There isn't one of them worth a row of pins. Ifany one ever writes my political biography, they will probably decidethat the parting with you was the greatest of my blunders."

He rose to his feet, swinging the key upon his finger.

"One more word, Tallente," he added. "I want to warn you that so far asyour further progress is concerned, there is a snake in the grasssomewhere. The manuscript of which Williams spoke to you, and whichwould of course damn you forever with any party which depended for itsexistence even indirectly upon the trades unions, was offered to me,without any hint at financial return, on the sole condition that Iguaranteed its public production. It is perfectly obvious, therefore,that there is some one stirring who means harm. I speak to you now onlyas a friend and as a well-wisher. Did I understand Williams to say thatthe document was stolen from your study at Martinhoe?"

"It was stolen," Tallente replied, "by my secretary, Anthony Palliser,who disappeared with it one night in August."

"'Disappeared' seems rather a vague term," Horlock remarked.

"A trifle melodramatic, I admit," Tallente assented. "So were thecircumstances of his—disappearance. I can assure you that I have hadthe police inspector of fiction asking me curious questions and I amconvinced that down in Devonshire I am still an object of suspicion tothe local gossips."

"I remember reading about the affair at the time," Horlock remarked, ashe unlocked the door. "It never occurred to me, though, to connect itwith anything of this sort. Surely Palliser was a cut above theordinary blackmailer?"

Tallente shrugged his shoulders. "A confusion of ethics," he said. "Idare say you remember that the young man conspired with my wife to boostme into a peerage behind my back However!—"

"One last word, Tallente," Horlock interrupted. "I am not at liberty totell you from what source the offer as to your article came, but I cantell you this—Palliser was not or did not appear to be connected withit in any way."

"But I know who was," Tallente exclaimed, with a sudden lightning-likerecollection of that meeting on the railway platform at WoodyBay.—"Miller!"

Horlock made no answer. To his visitor, however, the whole affair wasnow clear.

"Miller must have bought the manuscript from Palliser," he said, "whenhe knew what sort of an offer Dartrey was going to make to me andrealised how it would affect him. Horlock, I am not sure, after all,that I don't rather envy you if you decide to drop out of politics. Themain road is well enough, but the by-ways are pretty filthy."

Horlock remained gravely silent and Tallente passed out of the room,realising that he had finally severed his connection with orthodoxEnglish politics. The realisation, however, was rather more of a reliefthan otherwise. For fifteen years he had been cumbered with precedentin helping to govern by compromise. Now he was for the clean sweep ornothing. He strolled into the House and back into his own committeeroom, read through the orders of the day and spoke to the GovernmentWhip. It was, as Horlock had assured him, a dead afternoon. There werea sheaf of questions being asked, none of which were of the slightestinterest to any one. With a little smile of anticipation upon his lips,he hurried to the telephone. In a few moments he was speaking to Annie,Lady Jane's maid.

"Will you give her ladyship a message?" he asked. "Tell her that I amunexpectedly free for an hour or so, and ask if I may come around andsee her?" The maid was absent from the telephone for less than a minute.When she returned, her message was brief but satisfactory. Her ladyshipwould be exceedingly pleased to see Mr. Tallente.

CHAPTER XI

Tallente found a taxi on the stand and drove at once to Charles Street.The butler took his hat and stick and conducted him into the spaciousdrawing-room upon the first floor. Here he received a shock. The mostnatural thing in the world had happened, but an event which he had nevereven taken into his calculation. There were half a dozen other callers,all, save one, women. Jane saw his momentary look of consternation, butwas powerless to send him even an answering message of sympathy. Sheheld out her hand and welcomed him with a smile.

"This is perfectly charming of you, Mr. Tallente," she said. "I knowhow busy you must be in the afternoons, but I am afraid I amold-fashioned enough to like my men friends to sometimes forget even theaffairs of the nation. You know my sister, I think—Lady AliceMountgarron? Aunt, may I present Mr. Tallente—the Countess ofSomerham. Mrs. Ward Levitte—Lady English—oh! and Colonel Fosbrook."

Tallente made the best of a very disappointing situation. He exchangedbows with his new acquaintances, declined tea and was at once takenpossession of by Lady Somerham, a formidable-looking person intortoise-shell-rimmed spectacles, with a rasping voice and a judicialair.

"So you are the Mr. Tallente," she began, "who Somerham tells me hasachieved the impossible!"

"Upon the face of it," Tallente rejoined, with a smile, "your husband isproved guilty of an exaggeration."

"Poor Henry!" his wife sighed. "He does get a little hysterical aboutpolitics nowadays. What he says is that you are in a fair way to form acoherent and united political party out of the various factions ofLabour, a thing which a little time ago no one thought possible."

Tallente promptly disclaimed the achievement.

"Stephen Dartrey is the man who did that," he declared. "I only joinedthe Democrats a few months ago."

"But you are their leader," Lady Alice put in.

"Only in the House of Commons," Tallente replied.

"Dartrey is the leader of the party."

"Somerham says that Dartrey is a dreamer," the Countess went on, "thatyou are the man of affairs and the actual head of them all."

"Your husband magnifies my position," Tallente assured her.

Mrs. Ward Levitte, the wife of a millionaire and a woman of vogue,leaned forward and addressed him.

"Do set my mind at rest, Mr. Tallente," she begged. "Are you going tobreak up our homes and divide our estates amongst the poor?"

"Is there going to be a revolution?" Lady English asked eagerly. "Andis it true that you are in league with all the Bolshevists on thecontinent?"

Tallente masked his irritation and answered with a smile.

"Civil war," he declared, "commences to-morrow. Every one with a titleis to be interned in an asylum, all country houses are to be turned intosanatoriums and all estates will be confiscated."

"The tiresome man won't tell us anything," Lady Alice sighed.

"Of course, he won't," Mrs. Ward Levitte observed. "You can't announcea revolution beforehand truthfully."

"If there is a revolution within the next fifteen years," Tallente said,"I think it will probably be on behalf of the disenfranchisedaristocracy, who want the vote back again."

Lady English and Mrs. Levitte found something else to talk aboutbetween themselves. Lady Somerham, however, had no intention of lettingTallente escape.

"You are a neighbour of my niece in Devonshire, I believe?" she asked.

He admitted the fact monosyllabically. He was supremely uncomfortable,and it seemed to him that Jane, who was conducting an apparentlyentertaining conversation with Colonel Fosbrook, might have donesomething to rescue him.

"My niece has very broad ideas," Lady Somerham went on. "Some of herfellow landowners in Devonshire are very much annoyed with the way shehas been getting rid of her property."

"Lady Jane," he pronounced drily, "is in my opinion very wise. She isanticipating the legislation to come, which will inevitably restore theland to the people, from whom, in most cases, it was stolen."

"Well, my husband gave two hundred thousand pounds of good, hard-earnedmoney for Stoughton, where we live," Mrs. Ward Levitte intervened. "Sofar as I know, the money wasn't stolen from anybody, and I should saythat the robbery would begin if the Socialists, or whatever they callthemselves, tried to take it away from us to distribute amongst theirfollowers. What do you think, Mr. Tallente? My husband, as I dare sayyou know, is a banker and a very hard-working man."

"I agree with you," he replied. "One of the pleasing features of theaxioms of Socialism adopted by the Democratic Party is that it respectsthe rights of the wealthy as well as the rights of the poor man. TheDemocrats may—in fact, they most certainly will—legislate to preventthe hoarding of wealth or to have it handed down to unborn generations,but I can assure you that it does not propose to interfere with theethics ofmeum andtuum."

"I wish I could make out what it's all about," Lady Alice murmured.

"Couldn't you give a drawing-room lecture, Mr. Tallente, and tell us?"the banker's wife suggested.

"I am unfortunately a little short of time for such missionaryenterprise," Tallente replied, with unappreciated sarcasm. "Dartrey'svolume on 'Socialism in Our Daily Life' will tell you all about it.""Far too dry," she sighed. "I tried to read it but I never got past thefirst half-dozen pages."

"Some day," Tallente observed coolly, "it may be worth your while, allof you, to try and master the mental inertia which makes thought alabour; the application which makes a moderately good bridge playershould be sufficient. Otherwise, you may find yourselves living in analtered state of Society, without any reasonable idea as to how you gotthere." Mrs. Ward Levitte turned to her hostess.

"Lady Jane," she begged, "come and rescue us, please. We are beingscolded. Colonel Fosbrook, we need a man to protect us. Mr. Tallenteis threatening us with terrible things."

"We're getting what we asked for," Lady Alice put in quickly.

Colonel Fosbrook caressed for a moment a somewhat scanty moustache. Hewas a man of early middle-age, with a high forehead, an aquiline noseand a somewhat vague expression.

"I'm afraid my protection wouldn't be much use to you," he said,regarding Tallente with mild interest. "I happen to be one of the fewsurviving Tories. I imagine that Mr. Tallente's opinions and mine areso far apart that even argument would be impossible."

Tallente acquiesced, smiling.

"Besides which, I never argue, outside the House," he added. "Youshould stand for Parliament, Colonel Fosbrook, and let us hear once morethe Athanasian Creed of politics. All opposition is wholesome."

Colonel Fosbrook glared. The fact that he had three times stood forParliament and three times been defeated was one of the mortificationsof his life. He made his adieux to Jane and departed, and to Tallente'sjoy a break-up of the party seemed imminent. Mrs. Ward Levitte driftedout and Lady English followed suit. Lady Somerham also rose to herfeet, but after a glance at Tallente sat down again.

"My dear Jane," she insisted, "you must dine with us to-night. Youhaven't been here long enough to have any engagements, and it alwaysputs your uncle in such a good temper to hear that you are coming."

Jane shook her head.

"Sorry, aunt," she regretted, "but I am dining with the Temperleys. Imet Diana in Bond Street this morning."

"Thursday, then."

"I am keeping Thursday for—a friend. Saturday I am free."

"Saturday we are going into the country," her aunt said, a littleungraciously. "Heaven knows what for! Your uncle hates shooting andalways catches cold if he gets his feet wet."

Tallente unwillingly held out his hand to his hostess. He seemed tohave no alternative but to make his adieux. Jane walked with himtowards the door.

"I am horribly disappointed," he confessed, under his breath.

She smiled a little deprecatingly.

"I couldn't help having people here, could I?"

"I suppose not," he answered, with masculine unreasonableness. "I onlyknow that I wanted to see you alone."

"Men are such schoolboys," she murmured tolerantly. "Even you! I mustsee my friends, mustn't I, when they know that I am here and call?"

"About that friend on Thursday night?" he went on.

"I am waiting to hear from him," she answered, "whether he prefers todine here or to take me out."

His ill-humour vanished, and with it some of his stiffness of bearing.His farewell bow from the door to Lady Somerham was distinguished with anew affability.

"If we may be alone," he said softly, "I should like to come here."

Nevertheless, his visit left him a little disturbed, perhaps a littleirritable. With all the dominant selfishness which is part of a man'slove, he had spent every waking leisure moment since their last meetingin a world peopled by Jane and himself alone, a world in which any otherwould have been an intruder. His eagerly anticipated visit to her hadbrought him sharply up against the commonplace facts of their day-by-dayexistence. He began to realise that she was without the libertyaccorded to his sex, or to such women as Nora Miall, whose emancipationwas complete. Jane's way through life was guarded by a hundredirritating conventions. He began to doubt even whether she realised thefull import of what had happened between them. There was nothing grossabout his love, not even a speculation in his mind as to its ultimateconclusion. He was immersed in a wave of sentimentality. He wanted herby his side, free from any restraint. He wanted the joy of herpresence, more of those soft, almost reluctant kisses, the muteobedience of her nature to the sweet and natural impulse of her love.Of the inevitable end of these things he never thought. He was like aschoolboy in love for the first time. His desires led him no furtherthan the mystic joy of her presence, the sweet, passionless content ofpropinquity. For the time the rest lay somewhere in a world of goldenpromise. The sole right that he burned to claim was the right to haveher continually by his side in the moments when he was freed from hiswork, and even with the prospect of the following night before him, hechafed a little as he reflected that until then he must stand aside andlet others claim her. In a fit of restlessness he abandoned his usualtable in the House of Commons grillroom, and dined instead at theSheridan Club, where he drank a great deal of champagne and absorbedwith ready appreciation and amusement the philosophy of the man ofpleasure. This was one of the impulses which kept his nature plianteven in the midst of these days of crisis.

CHAPTER XII

Whilst Tallente was trying to make up for the years of pleasantgood-fellowship which his overstudious life had cost him and to recovertouch with the friends of his earlier days, Stephen Dartrey, filled witha queer sense of impending disaster, was climbing the steps to Nora'sflat. On the last landing he lingered for a moment and clenched hisfingers.

"I am a coward," he reflected sadly. "I have asked for this and it hascome."

He stood for a moment perfectly still, with half-closed eyes, seekingfor self-control very much in the fashion of a man who says a prayer tohimself. Then he climbed the last few stairs, rang the bell and heldout both his hands to Nora, who answered it herself.

"Commend my punctuality," he began.

"Why call attention to the one and only masculine virtue?" she replied.
"Let me take your coat."

He straightened his tie in front of the looking-glass and turned to lookat her with something like wonder in his eyes.

"Dear hostess," he exclaimed, "what has come to you?"

"An epoch of vanity," she declared, turning slowly around that he mightappreciate better the clinging folds of her new black gown. "Don't dareto say that you don't like it, for heaven only knows what it cost me!"

"It isn't only your gown—it's your hair."

"Coiffured," she confided, "by an artist. Not an ordinary hairdresserat all. He only works for a few of our aristocracy and one or twoleading ladies on the stage. I pulled it half down and built it upagain, but it's an improvement, isn't it?"

"It suits you," he admitted. "But—but your colour!"

"Natural—absolutely natural," she insisted. "You can wet your fingerand try if you like. It's excitement. If you look into the depths ofmy wonderful eyes—I have got wonderful eyes, haven't I?"

"Marvellous."

"You will see that I am suffering from suppressed excitement. To-nightis quite an epoch. To tell you the truth, I am rather nervous aboutit."

"Is he here?"

"You shall see him presently," she promised. "Come along."

"Where is Susan?" he asked, as he followed her.

"Gone out. So has my maid. I had a fancy to turn every one else out ofthe flat. Your only hot course will be from a chafing-dish. You see, Iam anxious to impress—him—with my culinary skill. I hope you willlike your dinner, but it will be rather a picnic."

Dartrey glanced back at the hall stand. There was no hat or coat thereexcept his own. He followed Nora into the little study, which wasseparated only by a curtain from the dining room.

"I think your idea is excellent," he pronounced. "And you will forgiveme," he added, producing the parcel which he had been carrying under hisarm. "See what I have brought to drink your health and his, even if hedoes not know yet the good fortune in store for him."

He set down a bottle of champagne upon the table. She laughed softly.

"You dear man!" she exclaimed. "Fancy your thinking of it! I thoughtyou scarcely ever touched wine?"

"I am not a crank," he replied. "Sometimes my guests have told me thatI have quite a reasonably good cellar for a man who takes so littlehimself. To-night I am going to drink a glass of champagne."

"Pommery!" she exclaimed. "I hope you'll be able to open it."

"That shall be my task," he promised. "You needn't worry aboutflippers. I have some in my pocket. And by the by," he added, glancingat the clock, "where is your other guest? It is ten minutes past eight,and I can hear your chafing-dish sizzling."

She threw back the curtain and took his arm. The table was laid fortwo. He looked at it in bewilderment and then back at her.

"He has disappointed you?"

She smiled up at him.

"He has disappointed me many, many times," she said, "but not to-night."

"I don't—understand," he faltered.

"I think you do," she answered.

He took the chair opposite to hers. The chafing-dish was between them.He was filled with a curious sense of unreality. It was a little scene,this, out of a story or a play. It didn't actually concern him. Itwasn't Nora who sat within a few feet of him, bending down over thechafing-dish and stirring its contents vigorously.

"Of course," she said, "I am perfectly well aware that this is ananti-climax. I am perfectly well aware, too, that you will have a mostuncomfortable dinner. You won't know what to say to me and you'll bedying all the time to look in your calendar and see if this is leapyear. But even we working women sometimes," she went on, smilingbravely up at him, "have whims. I had a whim, Stephen, to let you knowthat I am very stupidly fond of you, and although it isn't your faultand I expect nothing from you except that you do not alter ourfriendship, you just stand in the way whenever I think of marrying anyone."

Perhaps because speech seemed so inadequate, Dartrey said nothing. Hesat looking at her with a queer emotion in his soft, studious eyes,drumming a little on the table with his finger tips, not quite sure whatit meant that his heart was beating like a young man's and a queersensation of happiness was stealing through his whole being.

"Nothing in the world," he murmured, "could alter our friendship."

"What you see before you," she went on, "is an oyster stew. The truehostess, you see, studying her guest's special tastes. It is verynearly cooked and if you do not pronounce it the most delicious thingyou ever ate in your life, I shall be terribly disappointed."

Dartrey sat as still as a man upon whom some narcotic influence rested,and his words sounded almost unnatural.

"I am convinced," he assured her, "that I shall be able to gratify you."

"What you get afterwards you see upon the sideboard: coldpartridges—both young birds though—ham, salad of my own mixing, and,behold! my one outburst of extravagance—strawberries. There is also acamembert cheese lying in ambush outside because of its strength. Iwould suggest that during the three minutes which will ensue before Iserve you with the stew, you open the champagne. You are so dumbfoundedat my audacity that perhaps a little exercise will be good for you."

Dartrey rose to his feet, produced the corkscrew and found the corkamenable. He filled Nora's glass and his own. Then he leaned over herand took her hand for a moment. His face was full of kindness and hewas curiously disturbed.

"You are the dearest child on earth, Nora," he said. "I find myselfwishing from the bottom of my heart that it were possible that you couldbe—something nearer and dearer to me."

She looked feverishly into his face and pushed him away.

"Go and sit down and don't be absurd," she enjoined. "Try and forgeteverything else except that you are going to eat an oyster stew. Thatis really the way to take life, isn't it—in cycles—and it doesn'tmatter then whether one's happy times are bounded by the coming night orthe coming years. For five minutes, then, a paradise—of oyster stew."

"It is distinctly the best oyster stew I have ever tasted in my life,"he pronounced a few minutes later.

"It is very good indeed," she assented. "Now your turn comes. Go tothe sideboard and bring me something. Remember that I am hungry anddon't forget the salad. And tell me, incidentally, whether you haveheard anything of a rumour going around about Andrew Tallente?"

He served her and himself and resumed his seat.

"A rumour?" he repeated. "No, I have heard nothing. What sort of arumour?"

"A vague but rather persistent one," she replied. "They say that it isin the power of certain people—to drive him out of political life atany moment."

Dartrey's smile was sufficiently contemptuous but there was a note ofanxiety in his tone which he could not altogether conceal.

"These canards are very absurd, Nora," he declared. "The politician isthe natural quarry of the blackmailer, but I should think no man of myacquaintance has lived a more blameless life than Andrew Tallente."

"I will tell you in what form the story came to me," she said. "It wasfrom a journalist on the staff of one of our great London dailies. Therumour was that they had been indirectly approached to know if theywould pay a large sum for a story, perfectly printable, but which woulddrive Tallente out of political life."

"Do you know the name of the newspaper?" he asked eagerly.

"I was told," Nora answered, "but under the most solemn abjuration ofsecrecy. You ought to be able to guess it, though. Then a woman whom Imet in the Lyceum Chub this afternoon asked me outright if there was anytruth in certain rumours about Tallente, so people must be talking aboutit."

The cloud lingered on Dartrey's face. He ate and drank in his usualsparing fashion, silently and apparently wrapped in thought. From theother side of the pink-shaded lamp which stood in the middle of thetable, Nora watched him with a curious, almost a sardonic sadness in herclear eyes. An hour ago she had looked at herself in the mirror and hadbeen startled at what she saw. The lines of her black gown, the mostextravagant purchase of her life, had revealed the beauty of her softand shapely figure. Her throat and bosom had seemed so dazzlinglywhite, her hair so rich and glossy, her eyes full of the hope, thesoftness, almost the anticipatory joy of the woman who has everything tooffer to the one man in her life. She had felt as she had looked:almost a girl, with music on her lips and joyous things in her heart,nursing that wonderful gift to her sex,—the hopeless optimism begottenof love. And her little house of cards had tumbled so quickly to theground, the little denouement on which she had counted had fallen soflat. They two were there alone. The little dinner which she hadplanned was as near perfection as possible. The champagne bubbled intheir glasses. The soft light, the solitude, the stillness,—nothinghad failed her, except the man. Stephen sat within a few feet of her,with furrowed brow and mind absorbed by a possible political problem.

Nora made coffee at the table, but they drank it seated in great easychairs drawn up to the fire. She passed him silently a box of hisfavourite brand of cigarettes. Perhaps that evidence of herforethought, the mute resignation of her restrained conversation withits attempted note of cheerfulness forced its way through the chinks ofhis unnatural armour. His whole face suddenly softened. He leanedacross and took her fingers into his.

"Dear Nora," he sighed, "what a brute I must seem to you and howdifficult it is for me to try and tell you all that is in my heart!"

"All tasks that are worth attempting are difficult," she murmured.
"Please go on."

"They are such simple things that I feel," he began, "simple and yetcontradictory. I should miss you more out of my life than any otherperson. I shall resent from my very soul the man who takes you from me.And yet I know what life is, dear. I know how inexorable are itsdecrees. You have a fancy for me, born of kindness and sympathy,because you know that I am a little lonely. In our thoughts, too, welive so much in the same world. That is just one of the ironies oflife, Nora. Our thoughts can move linked together through all theflowery and beautiful places of the world, but our bodies—alas, dear!Do you know how old I really am?"

"I know how young you are," she answered, with a little choke in herthroat.

"I am fifty-four years old," he went on. "I am in the last lap ofphysical well-being, even though my mind should continue to flourish.And you are—how much younger! I dare not think."

"Idiot!" she exclaimed. "At fifty-four you are better and stronger thanhalf the men of forty."

"I have good health," he admitted, "but no constitution or manner ofliving is of any account against the years. In six years' time I shallbe sixty years old."

She leaned a little towards him. Now once more the light was comingback into her eyes. If that was the only thing with him!

"In twelve years' time from now," she said, "I, too, shall turn over achapter, the chapter of my youth. What is time but a relative thing?Who shall measure your six years against my twelve? The years thatcount in the life of a man or a woman are the measure of theirhappiness."

She glided from her chair and sank on her knees beside him. Her lipspleaded. He took her gently, far too gently, into his arms.

"Dear Nora," he begged, "be kind to me. It is for your sake. I knowwhat love should mean for you, what it must mean for every sweet woman.You see only the present. It is my hard task to look into the futurefor you."

"Can't you understand," she whispered feverishly, "that I would ratherhave that six years of your life, and its aftermath, than an eternitywith any other man? Bend down your head, Stephen."

Her hands were clasped around his neck, her lips forced his. For amoment they remained so, while the room swam around her and her heartthrobbed like a mad thing. Then she slowly unlocked her arms and drewaway. As though unconscious of what she was doing, she found herselfrubbing her lips softly with her handkerchief. She threw herself backin her chair a little recklessly.

"Very well, Stephen," she said, "you know your heart best. Drink yourcoffee and I'll be sensible again directly."

To his horror she was shaken with sobs. He would have consoled her, butshe motioned him away.

"Dear Stephen," she pleaded, "I am sorry—to be such a fool—but thisthing has lived with me a long time, and—would you go away? It wouldbe kindest."

He rose to his feet, hesitated for one moment of agony, then crossed theroom with a farewell glance at the sad little feast. He closed the doorsoftly behind him, descended the stairs and stood for a moment in theentrance hall, looking out upon the street. A cheerless, drizzling rainwas falling. The streets were wet and swept with a cold wind. Helooked up and down, thought out the way to his club and shivered,thought out in misery the way back to Chelsea, the turning of hislatch-key, the darkened rooms. The house opposite was brilliantly litup. They seemed to be dancing there and the music of violins floatedout into the darkness. Even as he stood there, he felt the bands ofself-control weaken about him. A vision of the cold, grey days aheadterrified him. He was pitting his brain against his heart. Lives hadbeen wrecked in that fashion. Philosophy, as the years creep on, is buta dour consolation. He saw himself with the jewel of life in his hand,prepared to cast it away. He turned around and ran up the stone steps,light-hearted and eager as a boy. Nora heard the door open and raisedher head. On the threshold stood Stephen, transformed, rejuvenated, thelover shining out of his eyes, the look in his face for which she hadprayed. He came towards her, speechless save for one little cry thatended like a sob in his throat, took her into his arms tenderly butfiercely, held her to him while the unsuspected passion of his lipsbrought paradise into the room.

"You care?" she faltered. "This is not pity?"

He held her to him till she almost swooned. The restraint of so manyyears was broken down.

"Must I, after all, be the teacher?" he asked passionately, as theirlips met again. "Must I show you what love is?"

CHAPTER XIII

Tallente was seated at breakfast a few mornings later when his wife paidhim an unexpected visit. She responded to his greeting with a cold nod,refused the coffee which he offered her and the easy-chair which hepushed forward to the fire.

"I got your letter, Andrew," she said, "in which you proposed to callupon me this afternoon. I am leaving town. I am on my way back to NewYork, as a matter of fact, and I shall have left the hotel by midday, soyou see I have come to visit you instead."

"It is very kind," he answered.

She shrugged her shoulders and looked disparagingly around the plainlyfurnished man's sitting room.

"Not much altered here," she remarked. "It looks just as it did when Iused to come to tea with you before we were married."

"The neighbourhood is a conservative one," he replied. "Still, I mustconfess that I am glad I never gave the rooms up. I don't think thatnature intended me to dwell in palaces."

"Perhaps not," she agreed, a little insolently. "It is a habit of yoursto think and live parochially. Now what did you want of me, please?"

"There is a scheme on foot," he began, "to bring about my politicalruin."

"You don't mean to tell me," she exclaimed, with a sudden light in hereyes, "that you, my well-behaved Andrew, have been playing around? Youare not going to be a corespondent or any-thing of that sort?"

"I used the word 'political,'" he reminded her coldly. "You would notunderstand the situation, but its interest and my danger centres round acertain document which was stolen from my study at Martinhoe on or justbefore the day of my arrival from London last August."

"How dull!" she murmured.

"That document," he went on, "was purloined by Anthony Palliser from thesafe in my study. It was either upon him when he disappeared, or hedisposed of it on the afternoon of my arrival to a political opponent ofmine—James Miller."

"I had so hoped there was a lady in the case," she yawned.

"If you will give me your attention for one moment longer," he begged,"it will be all I ask. I want you to tell me, first of all, whetherJames Miller called at the Manor that afternoon and saw Palliser,whether any one called who might have been helping him, or—"

"Well?"

"Whether you have heard anything of Palliser since his disappearance?"

She looked at him hardly.

"You have brought me here to answer these questions?"

"Pardon me," he reminded her, "your coming was entirely your own idea."

"But why should you expect that I should give you information?" shedemanded. "You refused to give me the thing I wanted more than anythingin life and you have thrown me off like an old glove. If you arethreatened with what you call political ruin, why on earth should Iintervene to prevent it?"

He shrugged his shoulders.

"You take a severe and I venture to believe a prejudiced view of thesituation between us," he replied. "I never promised you that I wouldmake you a peeress. Such a thing never entered into my head. Everypledge I made to you when we were married, I kept. You cannot say thesame."

"The man's point of view, I suppose," she scoffed. "Well, I'll tell youwhat I know, in exchange for a little piece of information from you,which is—what do you know about Anthony Palliser's disappearance?"

He was silent for several moments. The frown on his forehead deepened.

"Your very question," he observed, "answers one of the queries whichhave been troubling me."

"I have no objection to telling you," she said, "that since that night Ihave neither seen nor heard of Palliser."

"What happened that night was simple," Tallente explained calmly;"perhaps you would call it primitive. You left the room. I beckonedPalliser to follow me outside. The car was still in the avenue and theservants were taking my luggage in. The spot where we stood on theterrace, too, was exactly underneath your window. I took him by the armand I led him along the little path towards the cliff. When we came tothe open space by the wall, I let him go. I asked him if he hadanything to say. He had nothing. I thrashed him."

"You bully!"

Tallente raised his eyebrows.

"Palliser was twenty years younger than I and of at least equal buildand strength," he said. "It was not my fault that he seemed unable todefend himself."

"But his disappearance—tell me about that?"

"We were within a few feet of the edge of the cliff. I struck himharder, Perhaps, than I had intended, and he went over. I stood thereand hooked down, but I could see nothing. I heard the crashing of somebushes, and after that—silence. I even called out to him, but therewas no reply. Some time later, Robert and I searched the cliff and thebay below for his body. We discovered nothing."

"It was high tide that night!" she cried. "You know very well that hemust have been drowned!"

"I have answered your question," Tallente replied quietly.

There was a cold fury in her eyes. The veins seemed to stand out on herclenched, worn hands. She looked at him with all the suppressed passionof a creature impotent yet fiercely anxious to strike.

"I shall give information," she cried. "You shall be charged with hismurder!"

Tallente shook his head.

"You will waste your time, Stella," he said. "For one thing, a womanmay not give evidence against her husband. Another thing, there cannotvery well be a charge for murder unsupported by the production of thebody. And for a third thing, I should deny the whole story."

Her fury abated, though the hate in her eyes remained.

"I think," she declared, "that you are the most coldblooded creature Iever knew."

The irony of the situation gripped at him. He rose suddenly to hisfeet, filled with an overwhelming desire to end it.

"Stella," he said, "to me you always seemed, especially during our lastfew years together, cold and utterly indifferent. I know now that I wasmistaken. In your way you cared for Palliser. You starved me. My ownfault, you would say? Perhaps. But listen. There is a way into everyman's heart and a way into every woman's, but sometimes that way lieshidden except to the one right person, and you weren't the right personfor me, and I wasn't the right person for you. Now answer the rest ofmy question and let us part."

"Tell me," she asked, with almost insolent irony, "do you believe thatthere could ever have been a right person for you?"

"My God, yes!" he answered, with a sudden fire. "I suffer the torturesof the damned sometimes because I missed my chance! There! I'm tellingyou this just so that you shall think a little differently, if you can.You and I between us have made an infernal mess of things. It waschiefly my fault. And as regards Palliser—well, I am sorry. Only thefellow—he may have been lovable to you, but he was a coward and a sneakto me—and he paid. I am sorry."

She seemed a little dazed.

"You mean to tell me, Andrew," she persisted, "that there is really someone you care for, care for in the big way—a woman who means as much toyou as your place in Parliament—your ambition?"

"More," he declared vigorously. "There isn't a single thing I have orever have had in life which I wouldn't give for the chance—just achance—"

"And she cares for you?"

"I think that she would," he answered. "She has been brought up in avery old-fashioned school. She knows of you."

Stella smiled a little bitterly.

"Well," she said, "I suppose I am a brute, but I am glad to know thatyou can suffer. I hope you will suffer; it makes you seem more humananyhow. But in return for your confidence I will answer the other partof your question. The man Miller was at the Manor that afternoon.Palliser confessed to me that he had given him some important document."

"Given him!"

"Well, sold him, then. Tony hadn't got a shilling in the world and hewould never take a halfpenny from me. He had to have money. He told meabout it that night before you came. Miller gave him five thousandpounds for it—secret service money from one of the branches of hisparty. Now you know all about it."

"Yes, I know all about it," Tallente assented, a little bitterly. "Youcan take your trip to America without a single regret, Stella. I shallcertainly never be a Cabinet Minister again, much less Prime Minister ofEngland. Miller can use those papers to my undoing."

She shrugged her shoulders as she turned towards the door.

"You are like the fool," she said, "who tried to build the tower of hislife without cement. All very well for experiments, Andrew, when one isyoung and one can rebuild, but you are a little old for that now, aren'tyou, and all your brain and all your efforts, and every thought you havebeen capable of since the day I met you have been given to that onething. You'll find it a little difficult to start all overagain.—Don't—trouble. I know the way down and I have a car waiting.You must take up golf and make a water garden at Martinhoe. I don'tknow whether you deserve that I should wish you good fortune. I can'tmake up my mind. But I will—and good-by!"

She left him in the end quite suddenly. He had not even time to openthe door for her. Tallente looked out of the window and watched herdrive away. His feelings were in a curiously numb state. For Stella hehad no feeling whatever. Her confirmation of Palliser's perfidy hadawakened in him no new resentment. Only in a vague way he began torealise that his forebodings of the last few days were founded upon areality. Whether Palliser lived or was dead, it was too late for him toundo the mischief he had done.

Tallente took up the receiver and asked for Dartrey's number. In halfan hour he was on his way to see him.

CHAPTER XIV

Tallente had the surprise of his life when he was shown into Dartrey'slittle dining room. A late breakfast was still upon the table and Norawas seated behind the coffee pot. She took prompt pity upon hisembarrassment.

"You've surprised our secret," she exclaimed, "but anyhow, Stephen wasgoing to tell you to-day. We were married the day before yesterday."

"That is why I played truant," Dartrey put in, "although we only went asfar as Tunbridge Wells."

Tallente held out a hand to each. For a moment the tragedy in his ownlife was forgotten.

"I can't wish you happiness, because you have found it," he said. "Wiseand wonderful people! Let me see if your coffee is what I shouldexpect, Nora," he went on. "To tell you the truth, I have had rather adisturbed breakfast."

"So have we," Dartrey observed. "You mean the Leeds figures, ofcourse?"

Tallente shook his head.

"I haven't even opened a newspaper."

"Horlock went down himself yesterday to speak for his candidate. Ourman is in by five thousand, seven hundred votes."

"Amazing!" Tallente murmured.

"It is the greatest reversal of figures in political history," Dartreydeclared. "Listen, Tallente. I was quite prepared to go the Session,as you know, but Horlock's had enough. He is asking for a vote ofconfidence on Tuesday. He'll lose by at least sixty votes."

"And then?"

"We can't put it off any longer. We shall have to take office. I shallbe sent for as the nominal leader of the party and I shall pass thesummons on to you. Here is a list of names. Some of them we ought tosee unofficially at once."

Tallente looked down the slip of paper. He came to a dead stop with hisfinger upon Miller's name.

"I know," Dartrey said sympathetically, "but, Tallente, you mustremember that men are not made all in the same mould, and Miller is thelink between us and a great many of the most earnest disciples of ourfaith. In politics a man has sometimes to be accepted not so much forwhat he is as for the power which he represents."

"Has he agreed to serve under me?" Tallente inquired.

"We have never directly discussed the subject," Dartrey replied. "Heposed rather as the ambassador when we came to you at Martinhoe, but asa matter of fact, if it interests you to know it, he was stronglyopposed to my invitation to you. I am expecting him here everymoment—in fact, he telephoned that he was on the way an hour ago."

Miller arrived, a few minutes later, with the air of one alreadycultivating an official gravity. He was dressed in his own conceptionof morning clothes, which fitted him nowhere, linen which confessed to aformer day's service and a brown Homburg hat. It was noticeable thatwhilst he was almost fulsome in his congratulations to Nora andovercordial to Dartrey, he scarcely glanced at Tallente and confinedhimself to a nod by way of greeting.

"Couldn't believe it when you told me over the telephone," he said. "Icongratulate you both heartily. What about Leeds, Dartrey?"

"Splendid!"

"It's the end, I suppose?"

"Absolutely! That is why I telephoned for you. Horlock is quiteresigned. I understand that they will send for me, but I wish to tellyou, Miller, as I have just told Tallente, that I have finally made upmy mind that it would not be in the best interests of our party for meto attempt to form a Ministry myself. I am therefore passing the taskon to Tallente. Here is a list of what we propose."

Miller clenched the sheet of paper in his hand without glancing at it.
His tone was bellicose.

"Do I understand that Tallente is to be Prime Minister?"

"Certainly! You see I have put you down for the Home Office, Sargent as
Chancellor of the Exchequer, Saunderson—"

"I don't want to hear any more," Miller interrupted. "It's time we hadthis out. I object to Tallente being placed at the head of the party."

"And why?" Dartrey asked coldly.

"Because he is a newcomer and has done nothing to earn such a position,"Miller declared; "because he has come to us as an opportunist, becausethere are others who have served the cause of the people for all theyears of their life, who have a better claim; and because at heart, mindyou, Dartrey, he isn't a people's man."

"What do you mean by saying that I am not a people's man?" Tallentedemanded.

"Just what the words indicate," was the almost fierce reply. "You'reEton and Oxford, not board-school and apprentice. Your brain brings youto the cause of the people, not your heart. You aren't one of us andnever could be. You're an aristocrat, and before we knew where we were,you'd be legislating for aristocrats. You'd try and sneak them intoyour Cabinet. It's their atmosphere you've been brought up in. It'swith them you want to live. That's what I mean when I say that you'renot a people's man, Tallente, and I defy any one to say that you are."

"Miller," Dartrey intervened earnestly, "you are expounding a case fromthe narrowest point of view. You say that Tallente was born anaristocrat. That may or may not be true, but surely it makes hisespousal of the people's cause all the more honest and convincing? Foryou to say that he is not a people's man, you who have heard hisspeeches in the house, who have read his pamphlets, who have followed,as you must have followed, his political career is sheer folly."

"Then I am content to remain a fool," Miller rejoined. "Once and forall, I decline to serve under Tallente, and I warn you that if you puthim forward, if you go so far, even, as to give him a seat in theCabinet of the Government it is your job to form, you will disunite theparty and bring calamity upon us."

"Have you any further reason for your attitude," Tallente askedpointedly, "except those you have put forward?"

Miller met his questioner's earnest gaze defiantly.

"I have," he admitted.

"State it now, then, please."

Miller rose to his feet. He became a little oratorical, more thanusually artificial.

"I make my appeal to you, Dartrey," he said. "You have put forward thisman as your choice of a leader of the great Democratic Party, the partywhich is to combine all branches of Labour, the party which is to standfor the people. I charge him with having written in the last year ofthe war a scathing attack upon the greatest of British institutions, thetrades unions, an article written from the extreme aristocraticstandpoint, an article which, if published to-day and distributedbroadcast amongst the miners and operatives of the north, would resultin a revolution if his name were persisted in."

"I have read everything Tallente has ever written, and I have never comeacross any such article," Dartrey declared promptly.

"You have never come across it because it was never published," Millercontinued, "and yet the fact remains that it was written and offered tothe Universal Review. It was actually in type and was only held back atthe earnest request of the Government, because on the very day that itshould have appeared, an armistice was concluded between the railwaymen, the miners and the War Council, and the Government was terrifiedlest anything should happen to upset that armistice."

"Is this true, Tallente?" Dartrey asked anxiously.

"Perfectly. I admit the existence of the article and I admit that itwas written with all the vigour I could command, on the lines quoted byMiller. Since, however, it was never published, it can surely betreated as nonexistent?"

"That is just what it cannot be," Miller declared. "The signedmanuscript of that article is in the hands of those who would rather seeit published than have Tallente Prime Minister."

"Blackmail," the latter remarked quietly.

"You can call it what you please," was the sneering reply. "The factsare as I have stated them."

"But what in the world could have induced you to write such an article,Tallente?" Dartrey demanded. "Your attitude towards Labour, even whenyou were in the Coalition Cabinet, was perfectly sound."

"It was more than sound, it was sympathetic," Tallente insisted. "Thatis why I worked myself into the state of indignation which induced me towrite it. I will not defend it. It is sufficient to remind you boththat when we were hard pressed, when England really had her back to thewall, when coal was the very blood of life to her, a strike was declaredin South Wales and received the open sympathy of the faction with whichthis man Miller here is associated. Miller has spoken plainly about me.Let him hear what I have to say about him. He went down to South Walesto visit these miners and he encouraged them in a course of actionwhich, if other industries had followed suit, would have brought thiscountry into slavery and disgrace. And furthermore, let me remind youof this, Dartrey. It was Miller's branch of the Labour Party who senthim to Switzerland to confer with enemy Socialists and for the lasteighteen months of the war he practically lived under the espionage ofour secret service—a suspected traitor."

"It's a lie!" Miller fumed.

"It is the truth and easily proved," Tallente retorted. "When peacecame, however, Miller's party altered their tactics and the hatchet wasto have been buried. My article was directed against the trades unionsas they were at that time, not as they are to-day, and I still claimthat if public opinion had not driven them into an arrangement with theGovernment, my article would have been published and would have donegood. To publish it now could answer no useful purpose. Itsapplication is gone and the conditions which prompted its tonedisappeared."

"I am beginning to understand," Dartrey admitted. "Tell me, how did themanuscript ever leave your possession, Tallente?"

"I will tell you," Tallente replied, pointing over at Miller. "Becausethat man paid Palliser, my secretary, five thousand pounds out of hissecret service money to obtain possession of it."

Miller was plainly discomfited.

"Who told you that lie?" he faltered.

"It's no lie—it's the truth," Tallente rejoined. "You used fivethousand pounds of secret service money to gratify a private spite."

"That's false, anyhow," Miller retorted. "I have no personal spiteagainst you, Tallente. I look upon you as a dangerous man in our party,and if I have sought for means to remove you from it, it has been notfrom personal feeling, but for the good of the cause."

"There stands your leader," Tallente continued. "Did you consult himbefore you bribed my secretary and hawked about that article, first toHorlock and now to heaven knows whom?"

"It is the first I have heard of it," Dartrey said sternly.

"Just so. It goes to prove what I have declared before—that Miller'sattack upon me is a personal one."

"And I deny it," Miller exclaimed fiercely. "I don't like you,Tallente, I hate your class and I distrust your presence in the ranks ofthe Democratic Party. Against your leadership I shall fight tooth andnail. Dartrey," he went on, "you cannot give Tallente supreme controlover us. You will only court disaster, because that article will surelyappear and the whole position will be made ridiculous. I am strongenough—that is to say, those who are behind me will take my word ontrust—to wreck the position on Thursday. I can keep ninety Labour menout of the Lobby and the Government will carry their vote of confidence.In that case, our coming into power may be delayed for years. We shalllose the great opportunity of this century. Tallente is your friend,Dartrey, but the cause comes first. I shall leave the decision withyou."

Miller took his departure with a smile of evil triumph upon his thinlips. He had his moment of discomfiture, however, when Dartrey coldlyignored his extended hand. The two men left behind heard the door slam.

"This is the devil of a business, Tallente!" Dartrey said grimly.

CHAPTER XV

Nora returned to the room as Miller left.

"I don't know whether you wanted me to go," she said to Dartrey, "but Icannot sit and listen to that man talk. I try to keep myself free fromprejudices, but there are exceptions. Miller is my pet one. Tell meexactly what he came about? Something disagreeable, I am sure?"

They told her, but she declined to take the matter seriously.

"A position like this is necessarily disagreeable," she argued, "but Ihave confidence in Mr. Tallente. Remember, this article was writtennine years ago, Stephen, and though for twenty-four hours it may makethings unpleasant, I feel sure that it won't do nearly the harm youimagine. And think what a confession to make! That man, who aims atbeing a Cabinet Minister, sits here in this room and admits that hebribed Mr. Tallente's secretary with five thousand pounds to steal themanuscript out of his safe. How do you think that will go down with thepublic?"

"A certain portion of the public, I am afraid," Tallente said gravely,"will say that I discovered the theft—and killed Palliser."

"Killed Palliser!" Nora repeated incredulously. "I never heard suchrubbish!"

"Palliser certainly disappeared on the evening of the day when he partedwith the manuscript to Miller," Tallente went on, "and has never beenseen or heard of since."

"But there must be some explanation of that," Dartrey observed.

There was a short silence, significant of a curious change in theatmosphere. Tallente's silence grew to possess a queer significance.The ghost of rumours to which neither had ever listened suddenly forcedits way back into the minds of the other two. Dartrey was the first tocollect himself.

"Tallente," he said, "as a private person I have no desire to ask you asingle question concerned with your private life, but we have come tosomething of a crisis. It is necessary that I should know the worst.Is there anything else Miller could bring up against you?"

"To the best of my belief, nothing," Tallente replied calmly

"That is not sufficient," Dartrey persisted. "Have you any knowledge,Tallente, which the world does not share, of the disappearance of thisman Palliser? It is inevitable that if you discovered his treacherythere should have been hard words. Did you have any scene with him? Doyou know more of his disappearance than the world knows?"

"I do," Tallente replied. "You shall share that knowledge with me to acertain extent. I had another cause for quarrel with Palliser to whichI do not choose to refer, but on my arrival home that night I summonedhim from the house and led him to an open space. I admit that I chose aprimitive method of inflicting punishment upon a traitor. I intended tothrash Palliser, a course of action in which I ask you, Dartrey, tobelieve, as a man of honour, I was justified. I struck too hard andPalliser went over the cliff."

Neither Nora nor Dartrey seemed capable of speech. Tallente's cool,precise manner of telling his story seemed to have an almost paralysingeffect upon them.

"Afterwards," Tallente continued, "I discovered the theft of thatdocument. A faithful servant of mine, and I, searched for Palliser'sbody, risking our lives in vain, as it turns out, in the hope ofrecovering the manuscript. The body was neither in the bay below norhung up anywhere on the cliff. One of two things, then, must havehappened. Either Palliser's body must have been taken out by the tide,which flows down the Bristol Channel in a curious way, and will nevernow be recovered, or he made a remarkable escape and decided, under allthe circumstances, to make a fresh start in life."

Nora came suddenly over to Tallente's side. She took his arm andsomehow or other the strained look seemed to pass from his face.

"Dear friend," she said, "this is very painful for you, I know, but yourother cause of quarrel with Palliser—you will forgive me if I ask—wasit about your wife?"

"It was," Tallente replied. "You are just the one person in the world,
Nora, in whom I am glad to confide to that extent."

She turned to Dartrey.

"Stephen," she said, "either Palliser is dead and his death can bebrought to no one's door, or he is lying hidden and there is no one toblame. You can wipe that out of your mind, can you not? All that weshall have to consider now is the real effect upon the members of ourparty as a whole, if this article is published."

"Have you a copy of it?" Dartrey asked.

Tallente shook his head.

"I haven't, but if a certain suspicion I have formed is true, I might beable to get you one. In any case, Dartrey, don't come to any decisionfor a day or two. If it is for the good of the party for you to throwme overboard, you must do it, and I can assure you I'll take the plungewillingly. On the other hand, if you want me to fight, I'll fight."

Dartrey smiled.

"It is extraordinary," he said, "how one realises more and more, as timegoes on, how inhuman politics really are. The greatest principle inlife, the principle of sticking to one's friends, has to be discarded.I shall take you at your word, Tallente. I am going to consider onlywhat I think would be best for the welfare of the Democratic Party andin the meantime we'll just go on as though nothing had happened."

"If Horlock approaches me," Tallente began—

"He can go out either on a vote of confidence or on an adverse vote onany of the three Bills next week," Dartrey said. "We don't want todrive them out like a flock of sheep. They can go out waving bannersand blowing tin horns, if they like, but they're going. It's time thecountry was governed, and the country, after all, is the only thing thatcounts.—I am sorry to send you back to work, Tallente, in such a stateof uncertainty, but I know it will make no difference to you. Strikewhere you can and strike hard. Our day is coming and I tell youhonestly I can't believe—nothing would make me believe—that you won'tbe in at the death."

"Don't forget that we meet to-night in Charles Street," Tallentereminded them, as he shook hands.

"Trust Nora," Dartrey replied. "She has been looking forward to itevery day."

"I now," Tallente said, as he took up his hat and stick, "am going toconfront an editor."

"You are going to try and get me a copy of the article?"

Tallente nodded.

"I am going to try. If my suspicions are correct, you shall have it intwenty-four hours."

Tallente, however, spent a somewhat profitless morning, and it was onlyby chance in the end that he succeeded in his quest. He strolled intothe lounge at the Sheridan Club to find the man he sought the centre ofa little group. Greetings were exchanged, cocktails drunk, and as soonas an opportunity occurred Tallente drew his quarry on one side.

"Greening," he said, "if you are not in a hurry, could I have a wordwith you before lunch?"

"By all means," the other replied. "We'll go into the smoking room."

They strolled off together, followed by more than one pair of curiouseyes. An interview between the editor of the daily journal having thelargest circulation in Great Britain and Tallente, possible dictator ofa new party in politics, was not without its dramatic interest.Tallente wasted no words as soon as they had entered the smoking roomand found it empty.

"Do you mind talking shop, Greening?" he asked. "I've been down to yourplace twice this morning, but couldn't find you."

"Go ahead," the other invited. "I had to go round to Downing Street andthen on to see the chief. Sorry you had a fruitless journey."

"I will be quite frank with you," Tallente went on. "What I am going tosuggest to you is pure guesswork. A political opponent, if I candignify the fellow with such a term, has in his possession an article ofmine which I wrote some years ago, during the war. I have been given tounderstand that he means to obtain publication of it for the purpose ofundermining my position with the Labour Party. Has he brought it toyou?"

"He has," Greening answered briefly.

"Are you going to use it?"

"We are. The article is in type now. It won't be out for a day or two.When it does, we look upon it as the biggest political scoop of thisdecade."

"I protest to you formally," Tallente said, "against the publication bya respectable journal of a stolen document."

Greening shook his head.

"Won't do, Tallente," he replied. "We have had a meeting and decided topublish. The best I can do for you is to promise that we will publishunabridged any comments you may have to make upon the matter, on thefollowing day."

"I have always understood that there is such a thing as a journalisticconscience," Tallente persisted. "Can you tell me what possiblejustification you can find for making use of stolen material?"

"The journalistic conscience is permitted some latitude in thesematters," Greening answered drily. "We are not publishing for the sakeof any pecuniary benefit or even for the kudos of a scoop. We arepublishing because we want to do our best to drive you out from amongstthe Democrats."

"Did Horlock send Miller to you?" Tallente enquired.

Greening shook his head once more.

"I cannot answer that sort of question. I will say as much as this inour justification. We stand for sane politics and your defection fromthe ranks of sane politicians has been very seriously felt. We lookupon this opportunity of weakening your present position with theDemocratic Party as a matter of political necessity. Personally, I amvery sorry, Tallente, to do an unfriendly action, but I can only say,like the school-master before he canes a refractory pupil, that it isfor your own good."

"I should prefer to remain the arbiter of my own destiny," Tallenteobserved drily. "I suppose you fully understand that that noxiousperson, Miller, paid my defaulting secretary five thousand pounds forthat manuscript?"

"My dear fellow, if your pocket had been picked in the street of thatmanuscript and it had been brought to us, we should still have used it,"was the frank reply.

Tallente stared gloomily out of the window.

"Then I suppose there is nothing more to be said," he wound up.

"Nothing! Sorry, Tallente, but the chief is absolutely firm. He looksupon you as the monkey pulling the chestnuts out of the fire for theLabour Party and he has made up his mind to singe your paws."

"The Democrats will rule this country before many years have passed,"Tallente said earnestly, "whether your chief likes it or not. Isn't itbetter to have a reasonable and moderate man like myself of influence intheir councils than to have to deal with Miller and his lot?"

Greening shrugged his shoulders and glanced at the clock.

"Orders are orders," he declared, "and even if I disbelieved in thepolicy of the paper, I couldn't afford to disobey. Come and lunch,Tallente."

"Can I have a proof of the article?"

"By all means," was the prompt reply. "Shall I send it to your rooms orhere?"

"Send it direct to Stephen Dartrey at the House of Commons."

"I see," Greening murmured thoughtfully, "and then a council of war, eh?Don't forget our promise, Tallente. We'll publish your counterblast,whatever the consequences."

Tallente sighed.

"It isn't decided yet," he said, as they made their way towards theluncheon room, "whether there is to be a counterblast."

CHAPTER XVI

"We have achieved a triumph," Jane declared, when the last of theservants had disappeared and the little party of four were left to theirown devices. "We have sat through the whole of dinner and not oncementioned politics."

"You made us forget them," Tallente murmured.

"A left-handed compliment," Jane laughed. "You should pay your tributeto my cook. Mr. Dartrey, I have told you all about my farms and yourwife has explained all that I could not understand of her last articlein the National. Now I am going to seek for further enlightenment.Tell my why the publication of an article written years ago is likely toaffect Mr. Tallente's present position so much?"

"Because," Dartrey explained, "it is an attack upon the most sensitive,the most difficult, and the section of our party furthest removed fromus—the great trades unions. Some years ago, Lady Jane, since the war,one of our shrewdest thinkers declared that the greatest dangerovershadowing this country was the power wielded by the representativesof these various unions, a power which amounted almost to adictatorship. We have drawn them into our party through detaching theunits. We have never been able to capture them as a whole. Even to-daytheir leaders are in a curiously anomalous position. They see theirpower going in the dawn of a more socialistic age. They cannot refuseto accept our principles but in their hearts they know that our triumphsounds the death knell to their power. This article of Tallente's wouldgive them a wonderful chance. Out of very desperation they will seizeupon it."

"Have you read the article?" Jane enquired.

"This evening, just before I came," Dartrey replied gravely.

"I can understand," Tallente intervened, "that you feel bound to takethis seriously, Dartrey, but after all there is nothing traitorous toour cause in what I wrote. I attacked the trades unions for theircolossal and fiendish selfishness when the Empire was tottering. Iwould do it again under the same circumstances. Remember I was freshfrom Ypres. I had seen Englishmen, not soldiers but just hastilytrained citizens—bakers, commercial travellers, clerks, smalltradesmen—butchered like rabbits but fighting for their country, dyingfor it—and all the time those blackguardly stump orators at home turnedtheir backs to France and thought the time opportune to wrangle for arise in wages and bring the country to the very verge of a universalstrike. It didn't come off, I know, but there were very few people whoreally understood how near we were to it. Dartrey, we sacrifice toomuch of our real feelings to political necessity. I won't apologize formy article; I'll defend it."

Dartrey sighed.

"It will be a difficult task, Tallente. The spirit has gone. Peoplehave forgotten already the danger which we so narrowly escaped—forgottenbefore the grass has grown on the graves of our saviours."

"Still, you wouldn't have Mr. Tallente give in without a struggle?"
Jane asked.

"I hope that Tallente will fight," Dartrey replied, "but I must warnyou, Lady Jane, that I am the guardian of a cause, and for that reasonI am an opportunist. If the division of our party which consists of thetrades unionists refuses to listen to any explanation and threatensseverance if Tallente remains, then he will have to go."

"So far as your personal view is concerned," Tallente asked, "you coulddo without Miller, couldn't you?"

"I could thrive without him," Dartrey declared heartily.

"Then you shall," Tallente asserted. "We'll show the world what hislocal trades unionism stands for. He has belittled the whole principleof cooperation. He twangs all the time one brazen chord instead ofseeking to give expression to the clear voices of the millions. Millerwould impoverish the country with his accursed limited production, histhreatened strikes, his parochial outlook. Englishmen are brimful ofcommon sense, Dartrey, if you know where to dig for it. We'llmaterialise your own dream. We'll bring the principles of socialisminto our human and daily life and those octopus trades unions shall feelthe knife."

Jane laid her hand for a moment upon his arm.

"Why aren't you oftener enthusiastic?"

He glanced at her swiftly. Their eyes met. Fearlessly she held hisfingers for a moment,—a long, wonderful moment.

"I was getting past enthusiasms," he said; "I was dropping into thedry-as-dust school—the argumentative, logical, cold, ineffectualschool. The last few months have changed that. I feel young again. IfDartrey will give me a free hand, I'll deliver up to him Miller'sbones."

Dartrey had come to the dinner in an uncertain frame of mind. No oneknew better than he the sinister power behind Miller. Yet beforeTallente had finished speaking he had made up his mind.

"I'll stand by you, Tallente," he declared, "even if it puts us back ayear or so. Miller carries with him always an atmosphere of unwholesomethings. He has got the Bolshevist filth in his blood and I don't trusthim. No one trusts him. He shall take his following where he will, andif we are not strong enough to rule without them, we'll wait."

It was a compact of curious importance which the two men sealedimpulsively with a grip of the hands across the table, and down atWoolhanger, through some dreary months, it was Jane's greatest pleasureto remember that it was at her table it had been made.

Tallente, seeking about for some excuse to remain for a few momentsafter the departure of the Dartreys, was relieved of all anxiety byJane's calm and dignified remark.

"I can't part with you just yet, Mr. Tallente," she said. "You are notin a hurry, I hope, and you are so close to your rooms that the matterof taxies need not worry you. And, Mr. Dartrey, next time you comedown to my county you must bring your wife over to see me. Woolhangeris so typically Devonshire, I really think you would be interested."

"I shall make Stephen bring me in the spring," Nora promised. "I shallnever forget how fascinated we were with the whole place this lastsummer. Don't forget that you are coming to the House with me tomorrowafternoon."

Jane smiled.

"I am looking forward to it," she declared. "The only annoying part isthat that stupid man won't promise to speak."

"I shall have so much to say within the next week or so," Tallenteobserved, a little grimly, "that I think I had better keep quiet as longas I can."

The moment for which Tallente had been longing came then. The frontdoor closed behind the departing guests. Jane motioned to him to comeand sit by her side on the couch.

"I love your friends," she said. "I think Mrs. Dartrey is perfectlysweet and Dartrey is just as wonderful as I had pictured him. They areso strangely unusual," she went on. "I can scarcely believe, even now,that our dinner actually took place in my little room here—StephenDartrey, the man I have read about all my life, and this brilliant youngwife of his. Thank you so much, dear friend, for bringing them."

"And thank you, dear perfect hostess," he answered. "Do you know whatyou did? You created an atmosphere in which it was possible to thinkand talk and see things clearly. Do you realise what has happened?Dartrey has done a great thing. He has thrown over the one menacingpower in the advancing cause of the people. He is going to back meagainst Miller."

"What exactly is Miller's position?" she asked.

"Let me tell you another time," he begged. "I have looked forward so tothese few minutes with you. Tell me how much time you are going tospare me this next week?"

She looked at him with the slight, indulgent smile of a woman realisingand glad to realise her power. To Tallente she had never seemed moreutterly and entirely desirable. It was not for him to know that aFrench modiste had woven all the cunning and diablerie of the sex lureinto the elegant shape, the apparent simplicity of the black velvetwhich draped her limbs. In some mysterious way, the same spirit seemedto have entered into Jane herself. The evening had been one ofunalloyed pleasure. She felt the charm of her companion more than everbefore. The pleasant light in her eyes, the courteous, half-mockingphrases with which, as a rule, she fenced herself about in those momentswhen he sought to draw her closer to him, were gone. Her eyes were asbright as ever, but softer. Her mouth was firm, yet somehow with afaint, womanly voluptuousness in its sweet curves. The fingers whichlay unresistingly in his hand were soft and warm.

"As much time as you can spare," she promised him. "I thought, though,that you would be busy tearing Miller bone from bone."

"The game of politics is played slowly," he answered, "sometimes soslowly that one chafes. Dear Jane, I want to see you all the time. Somuch of what is best in me, best and most effective, comes from you."

"If I can help, I am proud," she whispered.

"You help more than you will ever know, more than my lips can tell you.It is you who have lit the lamp again in my life, you from whom come thefire and strength which make me feel that I shall triumph, that I shallachieve the one thing I have set my heart upon."

"The one thing?" she murmured rashly.

"The one thing outside," he answered, "the desire of my brain. Thedesire of my heart is here."

She lay in his arms, her lips moved to his and the moments passeduncounted. Then, with a queer little cry, she stood up, covered herface for a moment with her hands and then held them both out to him.

"Dear man," she begged, "dearest of all men—will you go now?To-morrow—whenever you have time—let your servant ring up. I willfree myself from any engagement—but please!"

He kissed her fingers and passed out with a murmured word. He knew solittle of women and yet some wonderful instinct kept him always in theright path. Perhaps, too, he feared speech himself, lest the ecstasy ofthose few moments might be broken.

CHAPTER XVII

This is how a weekly paper of indifferent reputation but immensecirculation brought Tallente's love affair to a crisis. In a columnpurporting to set out the editor's curiosity upon certain subjects, thefollowing paragraphs appeared:

Whether a distinguished member of the Democratic Party is not consideredjust now the luckiest man in the world of politics and love.

Whether the young lady really enjoys playing the prodigal daughter athome and in the country, and what her noble relatives have to say aboutit.

Whether there are not some sinister rumours going about concerning thepolitician in question.

Jane's mother, who had arrived in London only the day before, was inCharles Street before her prodigal daughter had finished breakfast. Shebrandished a copy of the paper in her hand. Jane read the threeparagraphs and let the paper slip from her fingers as though she hadbeen handling an unclean thing. She rang the bell and pointed to whereit lay upon the floor.

"Take that into the servants' hall and let it be destroyed, Parkins,"she ordered.

The Duchess held her peace until the man had left the room. Then sheturned resolutely to Jane.

"My dear," she said, "that's posing. Besides, it's indiscreet. Parkinswill read it, of course, and it's what that sort of person reads,nowadays, that counts. We can't afford it. The aristocracy has had itsfling. To-day we are on our good behaviour."

"I should have thought," Jane declared, "that in these democratic daysthe best thing we could do would be to prove ourselves human like otherpeople."

"And people call you clever!" her mother scoffed. "Why, my dear child,any slight respect which we still receive from the lower orders is basedupon their conviction that somehow or other we are, after all, madedifferently from them. Sometimes they hate us for it and sometimes theylove us for it. The great thing, nowadays, however, is to cultivate andtry and strengthen that belief of theirs."

"How did you come to see this rag?" Jane enquired mildly.

"Your Aunt Somerham brought it round this morning while I was in bed,"her mother replied. "It was a great shock to me. Also to your father.He was anxious to come with me but is threatened with an attack ofgout."

"And what do you want to say to me about it? Just why did you bring methat rag and show me those paragraphs?"

"My dear, I must know how much truth there is in them. Have you beengoing about with this man Tallente?"

"To a certain extent, yes," Jane admitted, after a moment's hesitation.

"Chaperoned?"

"Pooh! You know I finished with all that sort of rubbish years ago,mother."

"I am informed that Mr. Tallente is a married man."

Jane flinched a little for the first time.

"All the world knows that," she answered. "He married an American, oneof William Hunter's daughters."

"Who has now, I understand, left him?" Lady Jane shrugged her shoulders.

"I do not discuss Mr. Tallente's matrimonial affairs with him."

"Surely," her mother remarked acidly, "in view of your growing intimacythey are of some interest to you both?"

Jane was silent for a moment.

"Just what have you come to say, mother?" she asked, looking up at her,clear-eyed and composed. "Better let's get it over."

The Duchess cleared her throat.

"Jane," she said, "we have become reconciled, your father and I, againstour wills, to your strange political views and the isolation in whichyou choose to live, but when your eccentricities lead you to a course ofaction which makes you the target for scandal, your family protests. Ihave come to beg that this intimacy of yours with Mr. Tallente shouldcease."

"Mother," Jane replied, "for years after I left the schoolroom Isubjected myself to your guidance in these matters. I went throughthree London seasons and made myself as agreeable as possible towhatever you brought along and called a man. At the end of that time Irevolted. I am still in revolt. Mr. Tallente interests me more thanany man I know and I shall not give up my friendship with him."

"Your aunt tells me that Colonel Fosbrook wants to marry you."

"He has mentioned the fact continually," Jane assented. "ColonelFosbrook is a very pleasant person who does not appeal to me in theslightest as a husband."

"The Fosbrooks are one of our oldest families," the Duchess saidseverely. "Arnold Fosbrook is very wealthy and the connection would bemost desirable. You are twenty-nine years old, Jane, and you ought tomarry. You ought to have children and bring them up to defend the orderin which you were born."

"Mother dear," Jane declared, smiling, "this conversation had bettercease. Thanks to dear Aunt Jane, I have an independent fortune,Woolhanger, and my little house here. I have adopted an independentmanner of life and I have not the least idea of changing it. You havethree other daughters and they have all married to your completesatisfaction. I don't think that I shall ever be a very black sheep butyou must look upon me as outside the fold.—I hope you will stay tolunch. Colonel Fosbrook is bringing his sister and the Princess iscoming."

The Duchess rose to her feet. The family dignity justified itself inher cold withdrawal.

"Thank you, Jane," she said, "I am engaged. I am glad to know, however,that you still have one or two respectable friends."

The setting was the same only the atmosphere seemed somehow changed whenJane received her second visitor that day. She was waiting for him inthe small sitting room into which no other visitor save members of thefamily were ever invited. There was a comfortable fire burning, theroses which had come from him a few hours before were everywheredisplayed, and Jane herself, in a soft brown velvet gown, rose to herfeet, comely and graceful, to welcome him.

"So we are immortalised!" she exclaimed, smiling.

"That wretched rag!" he replied. "I was hoping you wouldn't see it."

"Mother was here with a copy before eleven o'clock."

Tallente made a grimace.

"Have you sworn to abjure me and all my works?"

"So much so," she told him, "that I have been here waiting for you forat least half an hour and I have put on the gown you said you likedbest. Some one said in a book I was reading last week that affectionwas proved only by trifles. I have certainly never before in my lifealtered my scheme of clothes to please any man."

He raised her fingers to his lips.

"You are exercising," he said, "the most wonderful gift of your sex.
You are providing an oasis—more than that, a paradise—for a
disheartened toiler. It seems that I have enemies whose very existence
I never guessed at."

"Well, does that matter very much?" she asked cheerfully. "It was oneof your late party, wasn't it, who said that the making of enemies wasthe only reward of political success?"

"A cheap enough saying," Tallente sighed, "yet with the germs of truthin it. I don't mind the allusion to a sinister rumour. The air will bethick with them before long. The other—well, it's beneath criticismbut it hurts."

She laughed whole-heartedly.

"Andrew," she said, "for the first time in my life I am ashamed of you.Here am I, hidebound in conventions, and I could just summon indignationenough to send the paper down to the kitchen to be burnt. Since then Ihave not even thought of it. I was far more angry that any one shouldanticipate the troubles which you have to face. Come and sit down."

She led him to the couch and held his fingers in hers as she leaned backin a corner.

"I honestly believe," she went on gently, "that the world is notsufficiently grateful to those who toil for her. Criticism has become ahabit of life. Nobody believes or wants to believe in the altruist anylonger. I believe that if to-day a rich man stripped himself of all hispossessions and obeyed the doctrines of the Bible by giving them to thepoor, the Daily something or other would worry around until they foundsome interested motive, and the Daily something or other else wouldsucceed in proving the man a hypocrite."

He smiled and in the lightening of his face she appreciated for thefirst time a certain strained look about his eyes and the drawn lookabout the mouth.

"You are worrying about all this!" she exclaimed.

"Yes, in a way I am worrying," he confessed simply. "Not about thestorm itself. I am ready to face that and I think I shall be a strongerand a saner man when the battle has started. In the meantime, I thinkthat what has happened to me is this. I have arrived just at that timeof life when a man takes stock of himself and his doings, criticises hisown past and wonders whether the things he has proposed doing in thefuture are worth while."

"You of all men in the world need never ask yourself that," she declaredwarmly. "Think of your lifelong devotion to your work. Think of theidlers by whom you are surrounded."

"I work," he admitted, "but I sometimes ask myself whether I work withthe same motives as I did when I was young. I started life as analtruist. I am not sure now whether I am not working in self-defence,from habit, because I am afraid of falling behind."

"You mean that you have lost your ideals?"

"I wonder," he speculated, "whether any man can carry them through to myage and not be afflicted with doubts as to whether, after all, he hasbeen on the right path, whether he may not have been worshipping falsegods."

"Tell me exactly how you started life," she begged.

"Like any other third or fourth son of a bankrupt baronet," he replied."I went to Eaton and Oxford with the knowledge that I had to carve outmy own career and my ambitions when I left the University were entirelypersonal. I chose diplomacy. I did moderately well, I believe. I remembermy first really confidential mission," he went on, with a faint smile,"brought me to Paris, where we met.—Then came Parliament—afterwardsthe war and a revolution in all my ideas. I suddenly saw the strengthand power of England and realised whence it came. I realised that itwas our democracy which was the backbone of the country. I realised theinjustice of those centuries of class government. I plunged into my oldsocialistic studies, which I had taken up at Oxford more out of capricethan anything, and I began to have a vision of what I have always sincelooked upon as the truth. I began to realise that there was somesuper-divine truth in the equality of all humans, notwithstanding thecheap arguments against it; that by steady and broad-minded governmentfor a generation or so, human beings would be born into the world undermore level conditions; and with the fading away of class would be bornor rather generated the real and wonderful spirit of freedom. Myparliamentary career progressed by leaps and bounds, but when in '15 thewar began to go against us, I turned soldier."

"You don't need to tell me anything about that part of your career," sheinterrupted, with a little smile almost of proprietory pride. "I neverforget it."

"When I came back," he continued, "I was almost a fanatic. I worked notfrom the ranks of the Labour Party itself, because I flatter myself thatI was clear-sighted enough to see that the Labour Party as it existedafter the war, split up by factions, devoted to the selfish interests ofthe great trades unions and with the taint of Miller retarding allprogress, had nothing in it of the real spirit of freedom. It was everyman for his own betterment and the world in which he lived might gohang. I stayed with the Coalitionists, though I was often a thorn intheir side, but because I was also useful to them I bent them oftentowards the light. Then they began to fear me, or rather my principles.It was out of my principles, although I was not nominally one of them,that Dartrey admits freely to-day he built up the Democratic Party. Hehad been working on the same lines for years, a little too much from theidealistic point of view. He needed the formula. I gave it to him.Horlock came into office again and I worked with him for a time.Gradually, however, my position became more and more difficult. In theend he offered me a post in the Cabinet, induced me to resign my ownseat, which I admit was a doubtful one, and sent me to fightHellesfield, which it was never intended that I should win. Then Millerdug his own grave. He opposed me there and I lost the seat. Horlockwas politely regretful, scarcely saw what could be done for me at themoment, was disposed to join in a paltry little domestic plot to sendme to the Lords. This was at the time I came down to Martinhoe, thetime, except for those brief moments in Paris, when I first met you."

"Pruning roses in a shockingly bad suit of clothes," she murmured.

"And taken for my own gardener! Well, then came Dartrey's visit. Helaid his programme before me, offered me a seat and I agreed to lead theDemocrats in the House. There I think I have been useful. I knew thegame, which Dartrey didn't. Whilst he has achieved almost theimpossible, has, except so far as regards Miller's influence amongst thetrades unions, brought the great army of the people into line, Iaccomplished the smaller task of giving them their due weight in theHouse."

"Very well, then," Jane declared, looking at him with glowing eyes,"there is your stocktaking, taken from your own, the most modest pointof view. With your own lips you confess to what you have achieved, towhere you stand. What doubts should any sane man have? How can you saythat the lamp of your life has burned dull?"

"Insight," he answered promptly. "Don't think that I fear the bigfight. I don't. With Dartrey on my side we shall wipe Miller intooblivion. It isn't true to-day to say that he represents the tradesunions, for the very reason that the trades unions as solid bodies don'texist any longer. The men have learnt to think for themselves. Many ofthem are earnest members of the Democratic Party. They have learnt tolook outside the interests of the little trade in which they earn theirweekly wage. No, it isn't Miller that I am afraid of."

"Then what is it?" she demanded.

"How can I put it?" he went on thoughtfully. "Well, first of all, then,I feel that the Democrats, when they come into power, are going todevelop as swiftly as may be all the fevers, the sore places, thejealousies and the pettiness of every other political party which hasever tried to rule the State. I see the symptoms already and that iswhat I think makes my heart grow faint. I have given the best years ofmy life to toiling for others. Who believes it? Who is grateful? Whowould not say that because I lead a great party in the House of Commons,I have all that I have worked for, that my reward is at hand? And itisn't. If I am Prime Minister in three months' time, there will stillbe something left of the feeling of weariness I carry with me to-day."

It was a new phase of the man who unconsciously had grown so dominant inher life. She felt the pull at her heartstrings. Her eyes were softwith unshed tears as her arm stole through his.

"Please go on," she whispered.

"There is the ego," he confessed, his voice shaking. "Why it has cometo me just at this period of life—but there it is. I have neglectedhuman society, human intercourse, sport, pleasures, the joys of a manwho was born to be a man. I am philosopher enough not to ask myselfwhether it has been worth while, but I do ask myself—what of the nextten years?"

"Who am I to give you counsel?" she asked, trembling.

"The only person who can."

"Then I advise you to go on. This is just a mood. There are muddyplaces through which one must pass, even in the paths that lead to themountain tops, muddy and ugly and depressing places. As one climbs, oneloses the memory of them."

"But I climb always alone," he answered, with a sudden fierceness. "Iwalk alone in life. I have been strong enough to do it and I am strongenough no longer.—Jane," he went on, his voice a little unsteady, hishands almost clutching hers, "it is only since I have known you that Ihave realised from what source upon this earth a man may draw hisinspiration, his courage, the strength to face the moving of mountains,day by day. My heart has been as dry as a seed plot. You have broughtnew things to me, the soft, humanising stimulus of a new hope, a newjoy. If I am to fight on to the end, I must have you and your love."

She was trembling and half afraid, but her hands yielded their pressureto his. Her lips and her eyes, the little quivering of her body, allspoke of yielding.

"I have done foolish things in my life," he went on, drawing her nearerto him. "When I was young, I felt that I had the strength of asuperman, and that all I needed in life was food for the brain. Iplaced woman in her wrong place. I sold myself and my chance ofhappiness that I might gain more power, a wider influence. It was a sinagainst life. It was a greater crime against myself. Now that thethunder is muttering and the time is coming for the last test, I see thetruth as I have never seen it before. Nature has taken me by thehand—shows it me.—Tell me it isn't too late, Jane? Tell me you care?Help me. I have never pleaded for help before. I plead to you."

Her eyes were wet and beautiful with the shine of tears. It seemed tohim in that moment of intense emotion that he could read thereeverything he desired in life. Her lips met his almost eagerly, met hisand gave of their own free will.

"Andrew," she murmured, "you see, you are the only man except those ofmy family whom I have ever kissed, and I kiss you now—again—andagain—because I love you."

CHAPTER XVIII

Tallente, notwithstanding the glow of happiness which had taken him downto Westminster with the bearing of a young man, felt occasional littleshivers of doubt as he leaned back in his seat during the intervals of abrief but portentous debate and let his mind wander back to that shorthour when he seemed to have emptied out all the hidden yearnings whichhad been lurking in the dark corners of his heart and soul. His lovefor Jane had no longer the boyish characteristics of a vague worship.He made no further pretences to himself. It was Jane herself, and notthe spirit of her sex dwelling in her body, which he desired. A tardyheritage of passion at times rejuvenated him and at others stretched himupon the rack.

He walked home later with Dartrey, clinging to the man with a newsympathy and drinking in with queer content some measure of hishappiness. Dartrey himself seemed a little ashamed of its exuberance.

"If it weren't that Nora is so entirely a disciple of our cause,Tallente," he said, "I think I should feel a little like the man in the'Pilgrim's Progress,' who stopped to pick flowers by the way. She issuch a help, though. It was she who pointed out the flaw in that secondamendment of Saunderson's, which I had very nearly passed. Did you readher article in the National, too?"

"Wonderful!" Tallente murmured. "There is no living woman who writessuch vivid and convincing prose."

"And the amazing part of it all is," Dartrey went on, "that she seeks noreward except just to see the cause prosper. She hasn't the faintestambition to fill any post in life which could be filled by a man. Shewould write anonymously if it were possible. She has insight whichamounts to inspiration, yet whenever I am with her she makes me feelthat her greatest gift is her femininity."

"It must be the most wonderful thing in life to have the help of any onelike Nora," Tallente said dreamily.

"My friend," the other rejoined, "I wish I could make you believe this.There is room in the life of the busiest man in the world for anunderstanding woman. I'll go further. No man can do his best workwithout her."

"I believe you are right," Tallente assented.

His friend pressed his arm kindly.

"You've ploughed a lonely furrow for a good many years, Tallente," hesaid. "Nora talks of you so often and so wistfully. She is such anunderstanding creature.—No, don't go. Just one whisky and soda. Itused to be chocolate, but Nora insists upon making a man of me."

Tallente was a little in the shadow of the hall and he witnessed thegreeting between Nora and her husband: saw her come out of the study,—asoft, entrancing figure in the little circle of firelight gleamingthrough the open door. She threw her arms around Dartrey's neck andkissed him.

"Dear," she exclaimed, "how early you are! Come and have an easy-chairby the fire and tell me how every one's been behaving."

Dartrey, with his arm around her waist, turned to Tallente.

"An entirely unrehearsed exhibition, I can assure you, Tallente," hedeclared.

Nora pouted and passed her other arm through Tallente's.

"That's just like Stephen," she complained, "advertising his domesticbliss. Never mind, there is room for an easy-chair for you."

Tallente took a whisky and soda but declined to sit down.

"I walked home with Stephen," he said, "and then I felt I couldn't goaway without seeing you just for a moment, Nora."

"Dear man," she answered, "I should have been terribly hurt if you had.Do make yourself comfortable by the fire. You will be able to check allthat Stephen tells me about the debate to-night. He is so inexact."

Tallente shook his head. "I am restless to-night, Nora," he saidsimply. "I shall walk up to the club."

She let him out herself, holding his hand almost tenderly. "Oh, youpoor dear thing!" she said. "I do wish I knew—"

"What?"

"What to wish you—what to hope for you."

He walked away in silence. They both understood so well.—He found hisway to the club and ate sandwiches with one or two other men, also justreleased from the House, but the more he tried to compose himself, themore he was conscious of a sort of fierce restlessness that drove theblood through his veins at feverish pace. He wandered from room toroom, played a game of billiards, chafing all the time at the necessityof finishing the game. He hurried away, pleading an appointment. Inthe hall he met Greening, who led him at once to a secluded corner.

"Prepared with your apologia, Tallente?" he enquired.

"It's in your office at the present moment," Tallente replied, "finishedthis morning."

Greening stroked his beard. He was a lank, rather cadaverous man, witha face like granite and eyes like polished steel. Few men had anythingto say against him. No one liked him.

"How are you regarding the appearance of these outpourings of yours,
Tallente?" he asked.

"With equanimity," was the calm rejoinder. "I think I told you what Ithought of you and your journalism for having any dealings with a thiefand for making yourself a receiver of stolen property. I have nothingto add to that. I am ready to face the worst now and you may find thethunders recoil on your own head."

"No one will ever be able to blame us," Greening replied, "forpublishing material of such deep interest to every one, even though itshould incidentally be your political death warrant. As a matter offact, Tallente, I was rather hoping that I might meet you here to-night.The chief and Horlock appear to have had a breeze."

"How does that concern me?" Tallente asked bluntly.

"It may concern you very much indeed. A few days ago I should have toldyou, as I did, that nothing in the world could stop the publication ofthat article. To-day I am not so sure. At any rate, I believe there isa chance. Would you care to see the chief?"

"I haven't the slightest desire to," Tallente replied. "I have made myprotest. Nothing in the world can affect the morality of your action.At the same time, I have got over my first dread of it. I am preparedwith my defence, and perhaps a little in the way of a counterattack.No, I am not going hat in hand to your chief, Greening. He must do ashe thinks well."

"If that is your attitude," Greening observed, "things will probablytake their course. On the other hand, if you were inclined to have aheart-to-heart talk with the chief and our other editors, I believe thatsomething might come of it."

"In other words," Tallente said coldly, "your chief, who is one of themost magnificent opportunists I ever knew, has suddenly begun to wonderwhether he is backing the right horse."

"Something like it, perhaps," Greening admitted. "Look here, Tallente,"he went on, "you're a big man in your way and I know perfectly well thatyou wouldn't throw away a real advantage out of pique. Consider thismatter. I can't pledge the paper or the chief. I simply say—see himand talk it over."

Tallente shook his head.

"I am much obliged, Greening," he said, "but I don't want to go throughlife with this thing hanging over me. Miller has a copy of thearticle, without a doubt. If you turn him down, he'll find some oneelse to publish it. I should never know when the thunderbolt was goingto fail. I am prepared now and I would rather get it over."

"Is Dartrey going to back you?" Greening asked.

Tallente smiled.

"I can't give away secrets."

Greening turned slowly away.

"I am off for a rubber of bridge," he said. "I am sorry, Tallente.Better dismiss this interview from your mind altogether. It very likelywouldn't have led to anything. All the same, I envy you yourconfidence. If I could only guess at its source, I'd have a leader forto-morrow morning."

Tallente walked down the stairs with a smile upon his lips. He put onhis hat and coat and hesitated for a moment on the broad steps. Then asudden wonderful thought came to him, an impulse entirely irresistible.He started off westward, walking with feverish haste.

The spirit of adventure sat in his heart as he passed through thecrowded streets. The night was wonderfully clear, the stars werebrilliant overhead and from behind the Colliseum dome a corner of theyellow moon was showing. He was conscious of a sudden new feeling ofkinship with these pleasure-seeking crowds who jostled him here andthere upon the pavement. He was glad to find himself amongst them andof them. He felt that he had come down from the chilly heights to walkthe lighted highways of the world. The keen air with its touch of frostinvigorated him. There was a new suppleness in his pulses, a queerexcitement in his whole being, which he scarcely understood until hislong walk came to an end and he found himself at a standstill in frontof the house in Charles Street, his unadmitted destination.

He glanced at his watch and found that it was half an hour aftermidnight. There was a light in the lower room into which Jane had takenhim on the night of her arrival in town. Above, the whole of the houseseemed in darkness. He walked a little way down the street and backagain. Jane was dining, he knew, with the Princess de Fénaples, hergodmother, and had spoken of going on to a ball with her afterwards. Inthat case she could scarcely be home for hours. Yet somehow he had ajoyful conviction that history would repeat itself, that he would findher, as he had once before, entering the house. His fortune was in theascendant. Not even the emptiness of the street discouraged him. Hestrolled a little way along and back again. As he passed the door oncemore, something bright lying underneath the scraper attracted hisnotice. He paused and stooped down. Almost before he had realised whathe was doing, he had picked up a small key, her latch-key, and washolding it in his hand.

He passed down the street again and there seemed something unreal in thebroad pavement, the frowning houses, the glow of the gas lamps. Theharmless little key burned his flesh. All the passionate acuteness oflife seemed throbbing again in his veins. He retraced his steps, makingno plans, obeying only an ungovernable instinct. The street was empty.He thrust the key into the lock, opened the door, replaced the key underthe scraper, entered the house and made his way into the room on theright.

Tallente stood there for a few minutes with fast-beating heart. He hadthe feeling that he had burned his boats. He was face to face now withrealities. There was no sound from anywhere. A bright fire was burningin the grate. An easy-chair was drawn up to the side of a small table,on which was placed a tumbler, some biscuits, a box of cigarettes andsome matches. A copper saucepan full of milk stood in the hearth, sideby side with some slippers,—dainty, fur-topped slippers. Even theseslight evidences of her coming presence seemed to thrill him. Timedissolved away into a dream of anticipation. Minutes or hours mighthave passed before he heard the motor stop outside, her voice biddingsome friend a cheerful good night, the turning of the key in the door,the drawing of a bolt, a light step in the hall, and then—Jane.

She was wrapped from head to foot in white furs, a small tiara ofemeralds and diamonds on her head. She entered, humming a tune toherself, serene, desirable.

"Andrew!"

Her exclamation, the light in her eyes, the pleasure which swiftly tookthe place of her first amazement, intoxicated him. He drew her into hisarms and his voice shook.

"Jane," he confessed, "I tried to keep away and I couldn't. I stole inhere to wait for you. And you're glad—thank heavens you're glad!"

"But how long have you been here?" she asked wonderingly.

He shook his head.

"I don't know. I walked down the street, hoping for a miracle. Then Isaw your key under the scraper. I let myself in and waited.—Jane, howwonderful you are!"

Unconsciously she had unfastened and thrown aside her furs. Her armsand neck shone like alabaster in the shaded light. She looked into hisface and began to tremble a little.

"You ought not to have done this," she said.

"Why not?" he pleaded.

"If any one had seen you—if the servants knew!"

He laughed and stopped her mouth with a kiss.

"Dear, these things are trifles. The things that count lie between ustwo only. Do you know that you have been in my blood like a fever allday? You were there in the House this afternoon, you walked the streetswith me, you drew me here.—Jane, I haven't felt like this since I was aboy. You have brought me back my youth. I adore you!"

Again she rested willingly enough in his arms, smiling at him, as hedrew near to her, with wonderful kindness. The fire of his lips,however, seemed to disturb her. She felt the enveloping turmoil of hispassion, now become almost ungovernable, and extricated herself gentlyfrom his arms.

"Put my saucepan on the fire, please," she begged. "You will find somewhisky and soda on the sideboard there. Parkins evidently thinks that Iought to have a male escort when I come home late."

"I don't want whisky and soda, Jane," he cried passionately. "I wantyou!"

She rested her hand upon his shoulder.

"And am I not yours, dear," she asked,—"foolishly, unwisely perhaps,but certainly yours?—They were all talking about you to-night at dinnerand I was so proud," she went on, a little feverishly. "Our host wasalmost eloquent. He said that Democracy led by you, instead of provinga curse, might be the salvation of the country, because you havepolitical insight and imperialistic ideas. It is those terrible peoplewho would make a parish council of Parliament from whom one has most tofear."

Tallente made no reply. He was standing on the hearth rug, a few feetaway from her, watching as she stirred her milk, watching the curve ofher body, the grace of her long, smoothly shining arms. And beyondthese things he strove to read what was at the back of her mind.

"We must talk almost in whispers," she went on. "And do have yourwhisky and soda, Andrew, because you must go very soon."

"It would disturb you very much if your servants were to know of mypresence here?" he asked, in a queer, even tone.

"Of course it would," she answered, without looking at him. "As youknow, I have lived, from my standpoints, an extraordinarilyunconventional life, but that was because I knew myself and was safe.But—I have never done anything like this before in my life."

"You have never been in the same position," he reminded her. "There hasnever been any one else to consider except yourself."

"True enough," she admitted, "but oughtn't that to make one all the morecareful? I loved seeing you when I came in, and I have loved our fewminutes together, but I am getting a little nervous. Do you see that itis past two o'clock?"

"There is no one to whom you are accountable for anything in life exceptto me," he told her passionately.

She laughed softly but a little uneasily.

"Dear Andrew," she said, "there is my own sense of what is seemlyand—must I use the horrid word?—my reputation to be considered. As itis, you may be seen leaving the house in the small hours of themorning."

A little shiver passed through him. All the splendid warmth of livingseemed to be fading away from his heart and thoughts. He was back againin that empty world of unreal persons. Jane had been a dream. Thiskindly faced, beautiful but anxious girl was not the Jane to whose armshe had come hotfoot through the streets.

"I ought not to have come," he muttered.

"Dear, I don't blame you in the least," she answered, "only be verycareful as you go out. If there is any one passing in the street, waitfor a moment."

"I understand," he promised. "I will take the greatest care."

He took up his hat and coat mechanically. She thrust her arm throughhis and led him to the door, looking furtively into his face as thoughafraid of what she might find there. Her own heart was beginning tobeat faster. She was filled with a queer sense of failure.

"You are not angry with me, Andrew? You know that I have been happy tosee you?"

"I am not angry," he answered.

There was a little choking in her throat. She felt the rush of strangethings. Her eyes sought his, filled with almost terrified anticipation.It chanced that he was looking away. She clenched her hands. Hismoment had passed.

"There is something else on your mind, Andrew, I know, but to-night wecannot talk any longer," she said, in something resembling her old tone."Be very careful, dear. To-morrow—you will come to-morrow."

He walked down the hall with the footsteps of a cat, let himself outsilently into the empty street and walked with leaden footsteps to hisrooms. It was not until he had reached the seclusion of his study thatthe change came. A sudden dull fury burned in his heart. He pouredhimself out whisky and drank it neat. Then he seated himself before hisdesk and wrote. He did not once hesitate. He did not reread a singlesentence. He dug up the anger and the bitterness from his heart and setthem out in flaming phrases. A sort of lunacy drove him into thebitterest of extremes. His brain seemed fed with the inspiration of hissuffering, fed with cruel epigrams and biting words. He dragged hisidol down into the dust, scoffed at the piecemeal passion which measuresits gifts, the complacency of an analysed virtue, the sense ofwell-living and self-contentment achieved in the rubric of a dry-as-dustmorality. She had failed him, offered him stones instead of bread.—Hesigned the letter, blotted it with firm fingers, addressed the envelope,stamped it and dropped it himself into the pillar box at the corner ofthe street. Then he turned wearily homeward, filled with the strange,almost maniacal satisfaction of the man who has killed the thing heloves.

CHAPTER XIX

There followed days of sullen battle for Tallente, a battle with luckagainst him, with his back to the wall, with despair more than onceyawning at his feet. The house in Charles Street was closed. There hadcome no word to him from Jane, no news even of her departure except thesomewhat surprised reply of Parkins, when he had called on the followingafternoon.

"Her ladyship left for Devonshire, sir, by the ten-fifty train."

Tallente went back to the fight with those words ringing in his ears.He had deliberately torn to pieces his house of refuge. Success orfailure, what did it matter now? Yet with the dogged courage of oneloathing failure for failure's own sake, he flung himself into thestruggle.

On the fifth day after Jane's departure, the thunderbolt fell.Tallente's article was printed in full and the weaker members of theDemocratic Party shouted at once for his resignation. At a questioncunningly framed by Dartrey, Tallente rose in the House to defend hisposition, and acting on the soundest axiom of military tactics, that thebest defence is attack, he turned upon Miller, and with causticdeliberation exposed the plot framed for his undoing. He threw cautionto the winds, and though repeatedly and gravely called to order, hepoured out his scorn upon his enemy till the latter, white as a sheet,rose to demand the protection of the Speaker. There were very few inthe House that day who ever forgot the almost terrifying spectacle ofMiller's collapse under his adversary's hurricane assault, or the proudand dignified manner in which Tallente concluded his own defence. Butthis was only the first step. The Labour Press throughout the countrytook serious alarm at an attack which, though out of date and influencedby conditions no longer predominant, yet struck a very lusty blow at thevery existence of their great nervous centres. Miller, as Chairman ofthe Associated Trades Unions, issued a manifesto which, notwithstandinghis declining influence, exercised considerable effect. It seemed clearthat he could rely still upon a good ninety votes in the House ofCommons. Horlock became more cheerful. He met Tallente leaving theHouse one windy March evening and the two men shared a taxi together,westwards.

"Looks to me like another year of office, thanks to you," the PrimeMinister observed. "Lenton tells me that we shall have a majority offorty on Thursday week. It is Thursday week you're going for us again,isn't it?"

"Many things may happen before then," Tallente replied, with a littleaffirmative nod. "Dartrey may decide that I am too expensive a luxuryand make friends with Miller."

"I don't think that's likely," Horlock pronounced. "Dartrey is a finefellow, although he is not a great politician. He is out to make aradical and solid change in the government of this country and he knowsvery well that Miller's gang will only be a dead weight around his neck.He'd rather wait until he has weaned away a few more votes—even get ridof Miller if he can—and stick to you."

"I think you are right," Tallente said. "I am keeping the Democratsfrom a present triumph, but if through me they shake themselves freefrom what I call the little Labourites, I think things will pan outbetter for them in the long run."

"And in the meantime," Horlock went on, lighting a cigar and passing hiscase to Tallente, "I must give you the credit of playing a magnificentlone hand. I expected to see Miller fall down in a fit when you wentfor him in the House. If only his army of adherents could have heardthat little duel, I think you'd have won straight through!"

"Unfortunately they couldn't," Tallente sighed, "and it's so hard tocapture the attention, to reach the inner understanding, of a greatmixed community."

"It's a curious thing about Englishmen," Horlock reflected, "especiallythe Englishman who has to vote. The most eloquent appeals on paperoften leave him unmoved. A perfectly convincing pamphlet he lays downwith the feeling that no doubt it's all right but there must be anotherside. It's the spoken words that tell, every time. What about Miller'selection next week?"

"A great deal depends upon that," Tallente replied. "Miller himselfsays that it is a certainty. On the other hand, Saunderson is going tobe proposed, and, with Dartrey's influence, should have a pretty goodbacking."

They travelled on in silence for a short time. Tallente looked idlythrough the rain-streaming window at the block of traffic, the hurryingpassers-by, the cheerful warmth of the shops and restaurants.

"You take life too seriously, Tallente," his companion said, a littleabruptly.

"Do I?" Tallente answered, with a thin smile.

"You do indeed. Look at me. I haven't a line on my face as comparedwith yours and I've held together a patchwork Government for five years.I don't know when I may be kicked out and I know perfectly well that theGovernment which succeeds mine is going to undo all I have done and isgoing to establish a state of things in this country which I considernothing short of revolutionary. I am not worrying about it, Tallente.The fog of Downing Street stinks sometimes in my nostrils, but I have alittle country house—you must come and see me there some day—down inBuckinghamshire, one of these long, low bungalow types, you know, withbig gardens, two tennis courts, and a golf course just across the river.My wife spends most of her time there now and every week-end, when I godown, I think what a fool I am to waste my time trying to hold areluctant nation to principles they are thoroughly sick of. Tallente,you can turn me out whenever you like. The day I settle down for two orthree months' rest is going to be one of the happiest of my life."

"You have a wonderful temperament," Tallente remarked, a little sadly.

"Temperament be damned!" was the forcible reply. "I have done my best.When you've said those four words, Tallente, any man ought to havephilosophy enough to add, 'Whatever the result may be, it isn't going tobe my funeral.' Look at you—haggard, losing weight every day, poringover papers, scheming, planning, writing articles, pouring out the greatgift of your life twice as fast as you need. No one will thank you forit. It's quite enough to give half your soul and the joy of living towork for others. Keep something up your sleeve for yourself, Tallente.Mark you, that's the soundest thing in twentieth century philosophyyou'll ever hear of.—Corner of Clarges Street right for you, eh?"

Tallente held out his hand.

"Horlock," he said, "thank you. I know you're right but unfortunately Iam not like you. I haven't an idyllic retreat, a charming companionwaiting for me there, a life outside that's so wonderful. I am drivenon because there's nothing else."

Horlock laid his hand upon his companion's shoulder. His tone wassuddenly grave—amply sympathetic.

"My friend—and enemy," he said. "If that is so—I'm sorry for you."

CHAPTER XX

There was a tense air of expectation amongst the little company of menwho filed into one of the smaller lecture rooms attached to Demos Housea few afternoons later. Two long tables were arranged with sixty orseventy chairs and a great ballot box was placed in front of thechairman. A little round of subdued cheers greeted the latter as heentered the room and took his place,—the Right Honourable John Weavel,a Privy Councillor, Member for Sheffield and Chairman of theIronmaster's Union. Dartrey and Tallente appeared together at the tailend of the procession. Miller sprang at once to his feet and addressedthe chairman.

"Mr. Chairman," he said, "I call attention to the fact that twohonorary members of this company are present. I submit that as thesehonorary members have no vote and the present meeting is called with thesole object of voting a chairman for the year, honorary members be notadmitted."

Mr. Weavel shook his head.

"Honorary members have the right to attend all meetings of our society,"he pronounced. "They can even speak, if invited to do so by thechairman for the day. I am sure that we are all of us very pleasedindeed to welcome Mr. Dartrey and Mr. Tallente."

There was a murmur of approval, in one or two cases a little dubious.
Dartrey smiled a greeting at Weavel.

"I have asked Mr. Tallente to accompany me," he explained, "because, inface of the great issues by which the party to which we all belong isconfronted, some question might arise on to-day's proceedings whichwould render his presence advisable. He does not wish to address you.I, however, with the chairman's permission, before you go to the votewould like to say a few words."

Miller again arose to his feet.

"I submit, Mr. Chairman," he said arrogantly, "that when I had theprivilege of being elected last April, no honorary member was present orallowed to speak."

Mr. Weavel rose to his feet.

"Gentlemen," he said, "you know what this meeting is. It is a meetingof fifty-seven representatives of the various trades unions of thecountry, to elect a single representative to take the chair whenevermeetings of this company shall be necessary. This gathering does notexist as a society in any shape or form and we have therefore neitherrules nor usages. Mr. Dartrey and Mr. Tallente, although they arehonorary members, are, I am sure, welcome guests, and whatever either ofthem wishes to say to us will, I am sure, be listened to. There is nobusiness. All that we have to do is to vote, to choose our leader forthe next twelve months. There are two names put forward—Saunderson andMiller. It is my business only to count the votes you may record.Presuming that no one else wishes to speak, I shall ask Mr. Dartrey tosay those few words."

Miller sat frowning and biting his nails. Dartrey moved to the fartherend of the room and looked down the long line of attentive faces.

"Weavel," he said, "and you, my friends, I am not here to say a word infavour of either of the two candidates between whom you have to chooseto-day. I am here just because you are valued members of the greatparty which before very long will be carrying upon its shoulders theburden of this country's government, to tell you of one measure whichsome of you know of already, which may help you to realise how importantyour to-day's choice will be. You know quite as much about politics asI do. You know very well that the present Government is doomed. Butfor an unfortunate difference of opinion between two of our supporterswho are present to-day, there is not the slightest doubt that theGovernment would lose their vote of confidence to-morrow, and that inthat case, if I still remained your chief, I should be asked to form aDemocratic Government, a task which, when the time comes, it is myintention to pass on to one more skilled in Parliamentary routine. Iwant to explain to you that we consider the representative you electto-day to be one of the most important personages in that Government.We have not issued our programme yet. When we do, we are going to makethe country a wonderful promise. We are going to promise that thereshall be no more strikes. That sounds a large order, perhaps, but weshall keep our word and we are going to end for ever this bitterstruggle between capital and labour by welding the two into one and bymaking the interests of one the interests of the other. Our scheme isthat the person whom you elect to-day will be chairman of an innerconference of twelve. We shall ask you to elect a further three fromamongst yourselves, which will give the trades unions fourrepresentatives upon this inner council. Four representative CabinetMinisters will be chosen by ballot to add to their number. Fouremployers of labour, elected by the Employers' Association, will alsojoin the council and the whole will be presided over by the person whomyou elect to-day. There will be a select committee, or ratherfifty-seven select committees, of each industry always at hand, and weconsider that we shall frame in that manner a body of men competent todeal with the inner workings of every industry. They will decide whatproportion of the earnings of each industry shall be allocated to labourand what to capital. In other words, they will fix or approve of orrevise the wages of the country. They will settle every dispute andtheir decision will be final. The funds held by the various tradesunions will form charitable funds or be returned as bonuses to thecontributors. I have given you the barest outline of the scheme whichhas been drawn up to form a part of our programme when the time comesfor us to present one. To-day you are only concerned to elect the onerepresentative. I am here to beg, gentlemen, that you elect one whosetheories, whose principles, whose antecedents and whose general attitudetowards labour problems will fit him to take a very important place inthe future government of the country."

There was a little murmur of applause. Miller was once more on hisfeet.

"I claim," he said, "that this is neither the time nor the place tospring upon us an utterly new method of dealing with Labour questions.What you propose seems to me a subtle attack upon the trades unionsthemselves. They have been the guardians of the people for the lastfifteen years, and even though some strikes have been necessary andalthough all strikes may not have been successful, yet on the whole thetrades unions have done their work well. I shall not accept, in theevent of my election, the programme which Mr. Dartrey has laid down,unless I am elected with a special mandate to do so."

Saunderson rose to his feet, a man of different type, blunt of speech,rugged, the typical working-man's champion except for his voice, whichwas of unexpected tone and quality.

"Mr. Weavel and the rest of you," he said, "I differ from Miller.That's lucky, because you can vote now not only for the man but theprinciple. I have loathed strikes all my life, just because I ampolitical economist enough to loathe waste and to hate to see productionfettered,—that is, where the fruits of the production are shared fairlywith Labour. I like Dartrey's scheme and I am prepared to stand by it."

Saunderson sat down. Dartrey and Tallente left the room while thebusiness of voting went on. Dartrey had a private room of his own inthe rear of the building and he and Tallente made their way there.

"Those men have a good deal to decide," Tallente reflected. "It's queerhow the balance of things has changed. I don't suppose any CabinetCouncil for years has had to tackle a more important problem."

"I wonder how they'll vote," Dartrey speculated. "Weavel's our man."

"You can't tell," Tallente replied. "You've given them something freshto think about. They may even decide not to vote to-day at all. Millerhas some strong supporters. He appeals tremendously to a certain classof labour—and that class exists, you know, Dartrey—which loves theexcitement and the loafing of a strike, which feels somehow or otherthat benefits got in any other way than by force are less than theyought to have been."

There was a knock at the door. Northern put in his head. He was the
Boot and Shoe representative.

"Thought I'd let you know how the thing's gone," he said. "There's anunholy row there. They've chucked Miller. Saunderson's in by fivevotes. I'm off back again. Miller's up speaking, tearing mad."

He nodded and disappeared. Dartrey held out his hand.

"Thank God!" he exclaimed. "Let's clear cut, Tallente. Nora must knowabout this at once. We'll call at the House and enter your amendmentagainst the vote of confidence. And then—Nora. I am not sure,Tallente—the man's a subtle fellow—but I rather think we've driventhe final nail into Miller's coffin."

CHAPTER XXI

The great night came and passed with fewer thrills than any one hadimagined possible. Horlock himself undertook the defence of his oncemore bitterly assailed Government and from the first it was obvious whatthe end must be. He spoke with the resigned cynicism of one who knowsthat words are fruitless, that the die is already cast and that hislittle froth of words, valedictory in their tone from the first, wasonly a tribute to exacting convention. Tallente had never been morerestrained, although his merciless logic reduced the issues upon whichthe vote was to be taken to the plainest and clearest elements. Heremained studiously unemotional and nothing which he said indicated inany way his personal interest in the sweeping away of the Horlockregime. He was the impersonal but scathing critic, paving the way forhis chief. It was Dartrey himself who overshadowed every one thatnight. He spoke so seldom in the House that many of the members hadforgotten that he was an orator of rare quality. That night he liftedthe debate from the level of ordinary politics to the idyllic realmswhere alone the lasting good of the world is fashioned. He pointed outwhat government might and should be, taking almost a Roman view of thecare of the citizen, his early and late education, his shouldering ofthe responsibilities which belong to one of a great community. From theindividual he passed to the nation, sketching in a few nervous butbrilliant phrases the exact possibilities of socialistic legislation;and he wound up with a parodied epigram: Government, he declared, wasphilosophy teaching by failures. In the end, Miller led fourteen of hisonce numerous followers into the Government lobby to find himself byforty votes upon the losing side.

Horlock found Tallente once more slipping quietly away from the Houseand bundled him into his car. They drove off rapidly. "So it'sBuckinghamshire for me," the former observed, not without jubilation."After all, it has been rather a tame finale. We were beaten before weopened our mouths."

"Even your new adherent," Tallente said, smiling, "could not save you."

Horlock made a grimace.

"You can have Miller and his faithful fourteen," he declared. "We don't
want him. The man was a Little Englander, he has become a Little
Labourite. Heaven knows where he'll end! Are you going to be Prime
Minister, Tallente?"

"I don't know," was the quiet reply. "Just for the moment I am weary ofit all. Day after day, fighting and scheming, speaking and writing,just to get you fellows out. And now we've got you out, well, I don'tknow that we are going to do any better. We've got the principles,we've got some of the men, but is the country ready for our programme!"

"If you ask me, I think the country's ready for anything in the way of achange," Horlock replied. "I am sure I am. I have been Prime Ministerbefore, but I've never in my life had such an army of incompetents atthe back of me. Take my tip, Tallente. Don't you have a Chancellor ofthe Exchequer who refuses to take a bit off the income tax every year."

"We shall abolish the income tax before long," Tallente declared.

"I shall invest my money in America," Horlock observed, "my savings,that is. Where shall I put you down?"

"In Chelsea, if you would," Tallente begged. "We are only just turningoff the Embankment. I want to see Mrs. Dartrey."

Horlock gave an order through the tube.

"I am going down to Belgrave Square," he said, "then I am going back to
Downing Street for to-night. To-morrow a dutiful journey to Buckingham
Palace, Saturday a long week-end. I shall take out a season ticket to
Buckinghamshire now. You're not going to nationalise the railways—or
are you, Tallente; what about season tickets then?"

"Nationalisation is badly defined," Tallente replied. "The Governmentwill certainly aim at regulating the profits of all public companies andapplying a portion of them to the reduction of taxation."

"Well, good luck to you!" Horlock said heartily, as the car pulled upoutside Dartrey's little house. "Here's just a word of advice from anold campaigner. You're going to tap the people's pockets, that's whatyou are going to do, Tallente, and I tell you this, and you'll find it'sthe truth—principles or no principles, your own party or any oneelse's—the moment you touch the pockets of any class of the community,from the aristocrat to the stone-breaker, they'll be up against you likea hurricane. Every one in the world hugs their principles, but thereisn't any one who'd hold on to them if they found it was costing themmoney.—So long, and the best of luck to you, Tallente. We may meet inhigh circles before long."

Horlock drove away, a discomfited man, jubilant in his thoughts offreedom. Tallente was met by Nora in the little hall—Nora, who hadkept away from the house at Stephen's earnest request.

"Stephen has done it," Tallente announced triumphantly. "He made theonly speech worth listening to. Horlock crumbled to pieces. Milleronly got fourteen of the ragtail end of his lot to vote with him. Wewon by forty votes. Horlock brought me here. He is to have a formalmeeting of the party. He'll offer his resignation on Thursday."

"It's wonderful!" Nora exclaimed.

"Stephen will be sent for," Tallente went on. "That, of course, is aforegone conclusion. Nora, I wish you'd make him see that it's his dutyto form a Government. There isn't any reason why he should pass it onto me. I can lead in the Commons if he wants me to, so far as thedebates are concerned. We are altering the procedure, as I dare say youknow. Half the government of the country will be done by committees."

"It's no use," Nora replied. "Stephen simply wouldn't do it. You mustremember what you yourself said—procedure will be altered. So much ofthe government of the country will be done outside the House. Stephenhas everything mapped out. You are going to be Prime Minister."

Tallente left early and walked homeward by the least frequented ways. Asoft rain was falling, but the night was warm and a misty moon madefitful appearances. The rain fell like little drops of silver aroundthe lampposts. There was scarcely a breath of wind and in Curzon Streetthe air was almost faint with the odour of spring bulbs from the windowboxes. Tallente yielded to an uncontrollable impulse. He walked ratherabruptly up Clarges Street, past his rooms, and paid a curious littlevisit, almost a pilgrimage, to the closed house in Charles Street. Itseemed to him that those drawn blinds, the dead-looking windows, thesmokeless chimneys typified in melancholy fashion the empty chambers inhis own heart. Weeks had passed now and no word had come from Jane. Hepictured her still smarting under the sting of his brutal words. Someof his phrases came back to his mind and he shivered with remorse. Ifonly—He started. It seemed for a moment as though history were aboutto repeat itself. A great limousine had stolen up to the kerbstone anda woman in evening dress was leaning out.

"Mr. Tallente," she called out, "do come and speak to me, please."

Tallente approached at once. In the dim light his heart gave a littlethrob. He peered forward. The woman laughed musically. "I do believethat you have forgotten me," she said, "I am Alice Mountgarron—Jane'ssister. I saw you there and I couldn't help stopping for a moment. CanI drop you anywhere?"

"Thank you so much," he answered. "My rooms are quite close by here in
Clarges Street."

"Get in, please, and I will take you there," she ordered. "Tell the manthe number. I want just one word with you."

The car started off. Lady Alice looked at her companion and shook herhead.

"Mr. Tallente," she said, "I am very much a woman of the world and Janeis a very much stronger person than I am, in some things, and a greatbaby in others. You and she were such friends and I have an idea thatthere was a misunderstanding."

"There was," he groaned. "It was my fault."

"Never mind whose fault it was," she went on. "You two were made foreach other. You have so much in common. Don't drift apart altogether,just because one has expected too much, or the other been content togive too little. Jane has a great soul and a great heart. She wants togive but she doesn't quite know how. And perhaps there isn't any way.But two people whose lives seem to radiate towards each other, as yoursand hers, shouldn't remain wholly apart. Take a day or two's holidaysoon, even from this great work of yours, and go down to Devonshire. Itwould be very dangerous advice," she went on, smiling, "to a differentsort of man, but I have a fancy that to you it may mean something, and Ihappen to know—that Jane is miserable."

The car stopped. Tallente held Lady Alice's hand as he had seldom heldthe hand of a woman in his life. A curious incapacity for speechchecked the words even upon his lips.

"Thank you," he faltered.

CHAPTER XXII

Upon the moor above Martinhoe and the farm lands adjoining, spring hadfallen that year as gently as the warm rain of April. Tallente,conscious of an unexpected lassitude, paused as he reached the top ofthe zigzag climb from the Manor and rested for a moment upon a block ofstone. Below him, the forests of dwarf oaks which stretched down to thesea were tipped with delicate green. The meadows were like deep softpatches of emerald verdure; the fruit trees in his small walled gardenwere pink and white with blossoms. The sea was peaceful as an azurelake into which the hulls of the passing steamers cut like knives,leaving behind a long line of lazy foam. Little fleecy balls of cloudwere dotted across the sky, puffs of soft wind cooled his cheeks when herose to his feet and faced inland.

Soon he left the stony road and walked upon the springy turf borderingthe moorland. Little curled-up shoots of light green were springingfrom the bracken. Here and there, a flame of gorse filled the air withits faint, almond-like blossom. And the birds! Farmlands stretchedaway on his left-hand side, and above the tender growth of corn, larksinvisible but multifarious filled the air with little quiverings ofmelody. Bleatng lambs, ridiculously young, tottered around on thisnew-found, wonderful earth. A pair of partridges scurried away from hisfeet; the end of a drooping cloud splashed his face with a few warmraindrops.

Tallente, as he swung onwards, carrying his cap in his hand, felt agreat glow of thankfulness for the impulse which had brought him here.Already he was finding himself. The tangled emotions of the last weekwere loosening their grip upon his brain and consciousness. Behind himLondon was in an uproar, his name and future the theme of every journal.Journalists were besieging his rooms. Embryo statesmen were telephoningfor appointments. Great men sent their secretaries to suggest ameeting. And in the midst of it all he had disappeared. The truth asto his sudden absence from town was unknown even to Dartrey. At thevery moment when his figure loomed large and triumphant upon one of thegreat canvasses in history, he had simply slipped away, a disappearanceas dramatic as it was opportune. And all because he had a fancy to seehow spring sat upon the moors,—and because he had walked back to hisrooms by way of Charles Street and because he had met Lady Alice.

The last ascent was finished and below him lay the house and climbingwoods,—woods that crept into the bosom of the hills, the closelygrowing trees tipped with tender greens melting into the softest ofindeterminate greys as the breeze rippled through their tops likefingers across a harp. The darker line of moorland in the background,scant as ever of herbiage, had yet lost its menacing bareness and seemedtouched with the faint colour of the earth beneath, almost pink in thegenerous sunshine. The avenue into which he presently turned wasstarred on either side with a riot of primroses, running wild into thebrambles, with here and there a belt of bluebells. The atmospherebeneath the closely growing trees—limes, with great waxy buds—becameenervating with spring odours and a momentary breathlessness came toTallente, fresh from his crowded days and nights of battle. Thesun-warmed wave of perfume from the trim beds of hyacinths in thesuddenly disclosed garden was almost overpowering and he passed like aman in a dream through their sweetness to the front door. The butlerwho admitted him conducted him at once to Jane's sanctum. Without anywarning he was ushered in.

"Mr. Tallente, your ladyship."

He had a strange impression of her as she rose from a very sea ofnewspapers. She was thinner—he was sure of that—dressed in indoorclothes although it was the middle of the morning, a suggestion of theinvalid about her easy-chair and her tired eyes. It seemed to him thatfor a moment they were lit with a gleam of fear which passed almostinstantaneously. She had recovered herself even before the door wasclosed behind the departing servant.

"Mr. Tallente!" she repeated. "You! But how is this possible?"

"Everything is possible," he answered. "I have come to see you, Jane."

She was glad but amazed. Even when he had obeyed her involuntarygesture and seated himself by her side, there was something incredulousabout her expression.

"But what does it mean that you are here just now?" she persisted.
"According to the newspapers you should be at Buckingham Palace to-day."

"To-morrow," he corrected her. "I hired a very powerful car and motoreddown yesterday afternoon. I am starting back when the moon risesto-night. For these few hours I am better out of London."

"But why—" she faltered.

He was slowly finding himself.

"I came for you, Jane," he said, "on any terms—anyhow. I came to begfor your sympathy, for some measure of your affection, to beg you tocome back to Charles Street. Is it too late for me to abase myself?"

Her eyes glowed across at him. She suddenly rose, came over and kneltby the side of his chair. Her arms went around his neck.

"Andrew," she whispered, "I have been ashamed. I was wrong. Thatnight—the thought of my pettiness—my foolish, selfish fears.—Oh, Iwas wrong! I have prayed that the time might come when I could tellyou. And if you hadn't come, I never could have told you. I couldn'thave written. I couldn't have come to London. But I wanted you toknow."

She drew his head down and kissed him upon the lips. Tallente knew thenwhy he had come. The whole orchestra of life was playing again. He wasstrong enough to overcome mountains.

"Andrew," she faltered, "you really—"

He stopped her.

"Jane," he said, "I have some stupid news. It seems to me incrediblystupid. Let me pass it on to you quickly. You knew, didn't you, that Iwas married in America? Well, my wife has divorced me there. Wemarried in a State where such things are possible."

"Divorced you?" she exclaimed.

"Quite legally," he went on. "I saw a lawyer before I started yesterdaymorning. But listen to the rest of it. Stella is married—married tothe man I thought I had thrown over the cliff. She is married toAnthony Palliser."

"Then you are free?" Jane murmured, drawing a little away. "Not in theleast," he replied. "I am engaged to marry you."

At luncheon, with Parkins in attendance, it became possible for them toconverse coherently.

"When I found you at home in the middle of the morning," he said, "I wasafraid that you were Ill."

"I haven't been well," she admitted. "I rode some distance yesterdayand it fatigued me. Somehow or other, I think I have had the feeling,the last few weeks, that my work here is over. All my farms are sold.I have really now no means of occupying my time."

"It is fortunate," he told her, with a smile, "that I am able to pointout to you a new sphere of usefulness."

She made a little grimace at him behind Parkins' august back.

"Tell me," she asked, "how did you ever make your peace with the tradesunions after that terrible article of yours?"

"Because," he replied, "except for Miller, their late chief, there are agreat many highly intelligent men connected with the administration ofthe trades unions. They realised the spirit in which I wrote thatarticle and the condition of the country at the time I wrote it. Myapologia was accepted by every one who counted. The publication of thatarticle," he went on, "was Miller's scheme to drive me out of politics.It has turned out to be the greatest godsend ever vouchsafed to ourcause, for it is going to put Mr. Miller out of the power of doingmischief for a—many years to come."

"How I hated him when he called here that day! Jane murmuredreminiscently."

"Miller is the type of man," Tallente declared, "who was always puttingthe Labour Party in a false position. He was born and he has lived andhe has thought parochially. He is all the time lashing himself into afury over imagined wrongs and wanting to play the little tin god onOlympus with his threatened strikes. Now there will be no morestrikes."

"I was reading about that," she reflected. "How wonderful it sounds!"

"The greatest power in the country," Tallente explained, "is thatwielded by these trades unions. There will be no more fights betweenthe Government and them, because they are coaling into the Government.I am afraid you will think our programme revolutionary. On the otherhand, it is going to be a Government of justice. We want to give thepeople their due, each man according to his worth. By that means wewipe out all fear forever of the scourge of eastern and mid-Europe, thebolshevism and anarchy which have laid great empires bare. We are notgoing to make the poor add to the riches of the rich, but on the otherhand we are not going to take from the rich to give to the poor. Thesociological scheme upon which our plan of government will be based isto open every avenue to success equally to rich and poor. The humanbeing must sink or swim, according to his capacity. Ours will never bea State-aided socialism."

Parkins had left the room. She held out her hand.

"How horrid of you!" she murmured. "You are gibing at me because I lentmy farmers a little money." He laughed softly.

"You dear!" he exclaimed. "On my honour, it never entered into my head.
Only I want to bring you gradually into the new way of thinking, because
I want so much from you so much help and sympathy."

"And?" she pleaded.

He looked around to be sure that Parkins was gone and, leaning from hisplace, kissed her.

"If you care for moonlight motoring," he whispered, "I think I can giveyou quite a clear outline of all that I expect from you."

She drew a little sigh of relief.

"If you had left me behind," she murmured, "I should have sat here andimagined that it was all a dream. And I am just a little weary ofdreams."

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