Lord Randolph's movements these last days had excited the Scotchman's curiosity. He had been doing the London streets systematically during his unoccupied afternoons. But it was difficult to discover what he was after. It was the tobacconists' shops that attracted him. He did not enter, only stood at the windows counting something. He jotted down the result on a piece of paper and then sped on to the next shop. In this way, with Andrew at his heels, he had done the whole of the W. C. district, St. James's, Oxford Street, Piccadilly, Bond Street, and the Burlington Arcade. On this occasion he took the small thoroughfares lying between upper Regent Street and Tottenham Court Road. Beginning in Great Titchfield Street he went from tobacconist's to tobacconist's, sometimes smiling to himself, at other times frowning. Andrew scrutinised the windows as he left them, but could make nothing of it. Not for the first time he felt that there could be no murder to-night unless he saw the paper first. Lord Randolph devoted an hour to this work. Then he hailed a cab. Andrew expected this. But the statesman still held the paper loosely in his hand. It was a temptation. Andrew bounded forward as if to open the cab door, pounced upon the paper and disappeared with it up an alley. After five minutes' dread lest he might be pursued, he struck a match and read: "Great Titchfield Street--Branscombe 15, Churchill 11, Langtry 8, Gladstone 4. "Mortimer Street--Langtry 11, Branscombe 9, Gladstone 6, Mary Anderson 6, Churchill 3. "Margaret Street--Churchill 7, Anderson 6, Branscombe 5, Gladstone 4, Chamberlain 4. "Smaller streets--Churchill 14, Branscombe 13, Gladstone 9, Langtry 9. Totals for to-day: Churchill 35, Langtry 28, Gladstone 23, Branscombe 42, Anderson 12, Chamberlain nowhere." Then followed, as if in a burst of passion, "Branscombe still leading--confound her." Andrew saw that Lord Randolph had been calculating fame from vesta boxes. For a moment this discovery sent Andrew's mind wandering. Miss Branscombe's photographs obstructed the traffic. Should not this be put a stop to? Ah, but she was a woman! This recalled him to himself. Lord Randolph had departed, probably for St. Stephen's. Andrew jumped into a hansom. He felt like an exotic in a glass frame. "The House," he said. What a pity his mother could not have seen him then! Perhaps Andrew was prejudiced. Undoubtedly he was in a mood to be easily pleased. In his opinion at any rate. Lord Randolph's speech that night on the Irish question was the best he ever delivered. It came on late in the evening, and he stuck to his text like a clergyman. He quoted from Hansard to prove that Mr. Gladstone did not know what he was talking about; he blazed out against the Parnellites till they were called to order. The ironical members who cried "Hear, hear," regretted it. He had never been wittier, never more convincing, never so magnificently vituperative.