On the twenty-first of December the Law Courts “rose” for the Christmas vacation. It was the end of the gloomiest and slackest term within the memory of living lawyers. The abnormally disturbed condition of social and business life had reacted on the whole profession, in both its branches. Suitors shunned the Courts; jurymen persistently absented themselves in spite of threats and fines; witnesses would not come for love, money, or subpœnas; and here at the Royal Courts, as at the Bailey, case after case broke down for want of evidence. The whole machinery of the law was out of gear. The outrage at Clerkenwell gave rise to anxious fears lest it should be repeated in the chief Palace of Justice, and day and night strong relays of police, concealed as far as possible from sight, kept vigilant observation and guarded all approaches to the building. Nearly half the detective force of Scotland Yard was employed on this special duty, for it was known that the leader, or leaders, of the League felt special enmity against all officials and professional followers of the law; while some believed that here, at the centre of the legal system, in some dark way a deadly attack might be expected. Such was the critical condition of affairs, and so grave, in particular, the problem of repressing crime and protecting life and property, that all the judges of the King’s Bench Division were officially requested to remain in town, or near to it, during the vacation. Communications of an urgent character reached the Chief Justice from the Lord Chancellor and also from the Home Office. Eager questions and wild surmises were whispered on every side by members of the Bar, but no one seemed to know what was going to happen, and, apparently, least of all his Majesty’s Government. Herrick, as he sauntered down the great hall towards the Strand, was overtaken by his old informant, Henshaw, whom he had only occasionally seen since the Hyde Park conflagration. Henshaw touched his hat. “A merry Christmas, Mr Herrick.” “Looks like it, doesn’t it?” said the young man, gloomily. “I expect we’ll be worse before we’re better,” opined the detective. “What are they going to do?” “Lord knows, sir. Everything’s at sixes and sevens. But one thing’s pretty certain--we shall soon be in the dark.” “What do you mean?” “The gas-workers are coming out on strike, and the electric-lighting men are pretty sure to follow suit.” “I suppose these cursed Leaguers are at the bottom of it?” “Ah! ask their General--that’s what they call him among themselves--though they do say some of his men have got so out of hand he can’t stop ’em now, even if he wants to. That man Raggett, for one; why, he’s as mad as a March hare, and he means to let hell loose on London before he’s done with it.” “Is Marcus White really their so-called General?” Henshaw nodded, and glanced round to see that no one overheard them. “Is he in London?”