Rumour has many wings, and, though the following day was Sunday, rumour fluttered through clubland in the morning, giving rise to many languid speculations concerning the true inwardness of the New Bailey episode of the previous day. It was regarded, for the most part, as an isolated incident, and not as the first link in a chain of significant events. It only began to be recognised in the latter character when it became known that the telegram which had drawn the well-known Treasury counsel, Arthur Dutton, to the north, was an absolute forgery, and devoid of any sort of truth or justification. In the light of this discovery, the attack which had incapacitated his leader, Mr Boulton, assumed a sinister suggestiveness. But even then, there was no one in the West End clubs who attributed the inopportune, or opportune, illness of Sir John Westwood to any other than purely natural causes. Some light might have been thrown on that point by his trusted clerk, or, indirectly, by Wilson’s wife, who on Sunday afternoon found her husband contemplating a bank-note with interest so thoughtful and absorbed that he did not hear his better-half approach. “Bless and save us! what are you staring at there?” demanded Mrs Wilson, who always was tart of tone and imperative in manner. “It’s a Bank of England note,” was Wilson’s reply. “How much?” demanded Mrs Wilson. “Five hundred pounds,” said Wilson, slowly; and he straightway lied according to his lights, when the wife of his bosom, who had the instincts of a cross-examiner, pursued her vehement inquiries. Meanwhile, the weather being charming, London society had been taking its Sunday airing in Hyde Park under surprising and inconvenient conditions. Between three and four o’clock great numbers of people of the type that had visited the Old Bailey on the previous day assembled on the south side of the Serpentine. Here, lining the rails, they shouted, yelled, and hooted at the passing carriages, to the surprise and alarm of their elegantly-attired occupants. Whistling, groans, and discordant noises filled the air. The turbulent throng grew and grew, and under the shield of popular excitement, thieves, pickpockets, and other disorderly persons employed themselves with their accustomed diligence. A hulking youth ran before a carriage and repeatedly struck the horse’s nose with his cap. Mud was thrown at some of the brilliant sunshades that flashed past, and a gentleman on horseback was almost unseated by part of a hurdle thrown at him by a ruffian lurking in the crowd. Horses plunged; some fell; while the mob expressed its feelings in triumphant jeers and mocking laughter. Presently volleys of stones began to fly, and as yet the police were present in such small numbers as to be practically helpless in the face of this unlooked-for display of ruffianism.