Sensational journals were not slow to unfold the tale of terror under startling headlines. Something akin to panic seized the country and coerced the Government into action. The Solicitor-General, though out of town, received earnest communications from ministers, and it was afterwards known that he had framed some of the most drastic clauses in the Bill which was forthwith introduced in the House of Commons. This measure obtained a Parliamentary record by passing through both Houses in a single day. It provided legal machinery for the suppression of conspiracies. It was part French and part Irish in its origin, and designed in effect to prevent the illegal manufacture and possession of explosives. The country, it was pointed out in Parliament, had been lulled into a false sense of security by the absence of dynamite outrages for a considerable time. But not so very far back, in a period of eleven years, there had been no less than sixty-nine crimes and attempted crimes by means of infernal machines, bombs, and other engines intended for the wholesale destruction of life and property. No wonder there were dark and agonised forebodings; for none could feel assured that history was not about to repeat that grim and blood-stained page in England’s capital. CHAPTER VII LOVE ON THE LEAS “Thank heaven!” sighed Herrick. He tossed a bulky brief on a side-table, and rose to his feet. The heat was stifling in his narrow room in Paper Buildings. Outside in the gardens the brown grass, dry and baked, bore witness to the long-continued drought. London was becoming an inferno. But for a week-end, at any rate, he was going to escape from it. The Westwoods were at Folkestone, and within twenty minutes the train would be carrying him sea-wards, to clean, pure air, to a smokeless sky--and to Aldwyth Westwood. The boy-clerk entered with two letters. “For you, sir,” said the youth, known to his Temple intimates as “Awthur.” “Right,” answered Herrick, thrusting them into a pocket. “Here, take my bag--look sharp! a hansom for Charing Cross.” “Awthur” showed himself alert, and within four minutes the jaded barrister was being driven westward through the thronged and sweltering Strand. “Poor devils, _they’ve_ got to stay in town,” he muttered. It struck him that the great artery of London life looked strange and sad in the afternoon glare of the summer sun; on every face was a set look of weariness and strain. High up on Exeter Hall, a huge placard attracted his attention: ON WEDNESDAY NEXT!!! MEETING FOR MEN ONLY. ADDRESS BY FATHER FRANCIS.