‘Yes,’ he commented, ‘the usual thing. Brave words followed by a cowardly deed. What in the name of fortune you were doing in that _galère_ you yourself know best. If these are politics, Horner, I say drop them. Politics are a stick, clean enough at the top, but you’ve got hold of the wrong end. Young Pleydell was hurt, I see—“seriously, it is feared.”’ ‘Yes,’ said Horner significantly; and his companion, after a quick look of surprise, read the slip of paper carefully a second time. Then he looked up and met Horner’s eyes. ‘Gad!’ he exclaimed in a whisper. Horner said nothing. The dog moved restlessly, and for a moment the whole world—that sleepless world of the streets—seemed to hold its breath. ‘And if he dies,’ said Conyngham at length. ‘Exactly so,’ answered the other with a laugh—of scaffold mirth. Conyngham turned in his chair and sat with his elbows on his knees, his face resting on his closed fists, staring at the worn old hearthrug. Thus they remained for some minutes. ‘What are you thinking about?’ asked Horner at length. ‘Nothing—got nothing to think with. You know that, Geoffrey. Wish I had—never wanted it as I do at this moment. I’m no good, you know that. You must go to some one with brains—some clever devil.’ As he spoke he turned and took up the paper again, reading the paragraph slowly and carefully. Horner looked at him with a breathless hunger in his eyes. At some moments it is a crime to think, for we never know but that thought may be transmitted without so much as a whisper. ‘“The miners were accompanied by a gentleman from London,”’ Conyngham read aloud, ‘“a barrister, it is supposed, whose speech was a feature of the Chester le-Street meeting. This gentleman’s name is quite unknown, nor has his whereabouts yet been discovered. His sudden disappearance lends likelihood to the report that this unknown agitator actually struck the blow which injured Mr. Alfred Pleydell. Every exertion is being put forth by the authorities to trace the man who is possibly a felon and certainly a coward.”’ Conyngham laid aside the paper and again looked at Horner, who did not meet his glance nor ask now of what he was thinking. Horner, indeed, had his own thoughts, perhaps of the fireside—modest enough, but happy as love and health could make it—upon which his own ambition had brought down the ruins of a hundred castles in the air—thoughts he scarce could face, no doubt, and yet had no power to drive away, of the young wife whose world was that same fireside; of the child, perhaps, whose coming had opened for a time the door of Paradise. Conyngham broke in upon these meditations with a laugh. ‘I have it!’ he cried. ‘It’s as simple as the alphabet. This paper says it was a barrister—a man from London—a malcontent, a felon, a coward. Dammy, Geoff—that’s me!’ He leapt to his feet. ‘Get out of the way, Tim!’ he cried to the dog, pushing the animal aside and standing on the hearthrug.