For a long time Sloville had rejoiced in an independent Radical as a representative, and yet Sloville was hard up. It is true that he had feathered his own nest by securing for his son a good Government appointment, but that had been no benefit to Sloville. He had also offended his constituents by the paltry way in which he subscribed to the local charities and local amusements. He was believed to be niggardly. It was known that he dealt at the Civil Service Stores. It was clear that no Sloville tradesman would vote for him. He had declined to pay the expenses of local Liberals, and in disgust they had hawked about the borough to anyone who would come down handsomely on their behalf. The managers of the party were in despair. Happily Sir Watkin Strahan offered them his services. He had property in the borough. His family were always good to the poor, and as a racing and betting man he was popular with the sporting fraternity. Sir Watkin was accepted as a matter of course. A day or two after the dissolution of Parliament had been announced, as Wentworth was breakfasting in his solitary chambers in Clifford’s Inn, slowly reading the morning papers, and meditating out of what material he could make best a leader, he heard a rap at the door. Opening it, a stranger met his view—tall, aristocratic, well dressed, in the prime of life, with the air and appearance of a gentleman. ‘You’re Mr. Wentworth, I believe,’ he said. ‘That’s my name, sir.’ ‘I am Sir Watkin Strahan,’ was the reply, as he handed his card to Wentworth. ‘Pray walk in, Sir Watkin.’ Sir Watkin complied with the request. Taking a chair, and lighting a cigar offered him by Wentworth, who did the same, the stranger continued: ‘I am commissioned to call on you by Mr. Blank,’ naming the proprietor of a morning journal with which Mr. Wentworth was connected. ‘The fact is, we are on the eve of a General Election.’ ‘I am perfectly aware of that,’ said Wentworth, smiling. ‘Undoubtedly; and I come to solicit your aid.’ ‘How can I help you?’ ‘Why, the fact is, I am anxious for a seat in Parliament.’ ‘For what purpose: public or private?’ ‘Why, Mr. Wentworth, how can you ask? I am a Liberal.’ ‘And, then, are all Liberals public spirited, and not averse to feathering their own nest when they have a chance?’ ‘Well, you know,’ replied the Baronet, ‘our party always aim at the public good.’ ‘Yes; but professions and practice don’t always harmonize. Sometimes private interest draws one way, and public duty points another.’ Sir Watkin coloured. He had consented to fight Sloville in the Liberal interest, but he had made a bargain on the subject with his party, and Wentworth’s casual remark had gone home. Wentworth continued: ‘In what way can I help you, Sir Watkin?’ ‘Mr. Blank tells me that you know something of Sloville.’ ‘Very little, indeed. I was there a short while some years ago. That is all. I doubt whether I can do you any good there.’