Erb read a slip of paper that Doubleday had left on the desk. Doubleday had addressed it to the committee, and it told them that, finding his health was giving way under the stress of the few days’ work, he had decided to take a holiday. If there should be any little trifle short in the cash accounts, that would be replaced as soon as he could make it convenient to do so. He added that he had drawn the sum standing to the Society’s credit, because there was not enough money in the safe to enable him to take the somewhat lengthened holiday which he felt was necessary. Thanking them for all past favours, regretting their acquaintance had been so brief, and wishing the Society every success, he remained, Theirs faithfully, Edward H. Doubleday. “I’d like to know the worst,” said the Labour M.P. “I suppose you’ve no experience in forcing looks?” “It’s a branch of my education,” replied Erb, “that’s been sadly neg— Why, the blessed thing’s open!” The safe was, indeed, unlocked, and this mattered the less, because the safe was quite empty. Erb struck a match and searched the corners; there was nothing to be seen but an envelope bearing the words, “I.O.U.,” a certain large amount, and Doubleday’s portentous signature. “What’s the next step, sir?” asked Erb. “Set the police on his track.” “And the next?” “Call the committee together at the earliest possible moment. Make them do what I should have induced them to do even though this had not happened—reinstate you as secretary.” “Anything else?” “After that you and I can talk over this bye-election business. I think we shall get you in the House, Barnes, before you’re very much older.” The M.P. looked at his large silver watch, “I must be moving. Deputation to the Home Secretary at one. Fine life ours, Barnes; always something doing. Always difficulties to be cleared away. You’ll enjoy it when you’re in the midst of it.” “Think so?” The Labour M.P. hurried off, pushing Spanswick aside as that desolate man made an effort to impart some further details of his acute grievance. Spanswick went to the door of the office, but found it shut in his face. “Now, if _I’d_ been in his place,” cried Spanswick, through the keyhole, “the least I should have thought of saying would have been ‘’Alves!’” CHAPTER XVI