"He explained very clearly at the beginning of his speech that it was the only course open to him under the circumstances. The whole affair being without precedence, I understand that he was practically given a free hand in his way of dealing with it. He said that he had from the first courted the fullest inquiry; he had immediately put matters into the hands of Scotland Yard. Everything that could be done had been done to compel the Power which had bought the information to admit from what source it was obtained. Up to the present moment its refusal was absolute. He accounted briefly for his actions on the day in question; even reading a letter from Von Kirsch, which, in my view, entirely cleared him. He said he knew that as yet he stood in the position of a man who had not legally proved his innocence, but that up till now he had not thought it possible that his fellow-members should seriously suspect him. In the face of public opinion, which he supposed was echoed by the House, he would resign his office until he was once more asked by his colleagues to take a seat in that great assembly. The whole speech was on these lines—direct, concise and manly. But he ended as he had begun, in silence." "Silence!" In the street below a man and woman were singing the refrain of a popular music-hall melody. The windows of the little flat opened on to the street, so in the pause that followed the words echoed distinctly, accompanied by the giggling murmur of the crowd, and the strumming of three primary chords on the piano-organ. "Don’t you wish ’e might get it, Bill? Oh, ain’t he a powerful man!" "Good-bye, I’m going now," said Lady Wereminster brokenly. "The street boys will be here soon, calling the extra specials. Well, you’re prepared for them now, thank God. Go to bed soon. You’re looking absolutely dead beat." She took the girl’s face in her hands and turned it towards the light of the little lamp which stood upon the three-cornered table by the mantelpiece. "Your heart’s been bad again, hasn’t it? Your face has got its old grey look—the look that always frightens me." "Oh, I’m all right," said Evelyn tonelessly. At the door Lady Wereminster turned suddenly back and put her arms round Evelyn again, as tenderly as a mother. "Hold on," she said; "you are one of those who must hold on, because we expect you to. So far you’ve been brave, Evelyn; don’t give in now." Usually a quiet sleeper, Lady Wereminster found that night that her thoughts were as clear, her mind as capable of action, as in the day. She had a pleasant little boudoir attached to her bedroom; at about two o’clock in the morning she rose from her bed and flung herself down upon the couch, a most unusual proceeding.