Oliver lifted a hand abruptly. “Tell me,” he said. “What am I wanted to say?” “Well, the President will have a proposal, we imagine. You know our minds well enough. Just explain our attitude towards the Catholics.” Oliver’s eyes shrank suddenly to two bright lines beneath the lids. He nodded. Cartwright came up presently, an immense, bent old man with a face of parchment, as befitted the Lord Chief Justice. “By the way, Brand, what do you know of a man called Phillips? He seems to have mentioned your name.” “He was my secretary,” said Oliver slowly. “What about him?” “I think he must be mad. He has given himself up to a magistrate, entreating to be examined at once. The magistrate has applied for instructions. You see, the Act has scarcely begun to move yet.” “But what has he done?” “That’s the difficulty. He says he cannot deny God, neither can he affirm Him.--He was your secretary, then?” “Certainly. I knew he was inclined to Christianity. I had to get rid of him for that.” “Well, he is to be remanded for a week. Perhaps he will be able to make up his mind.” Then the talk shifted off again. Two or three more came up, and all eyed Oliver with a certain curiosity; the story was gone about that his wife had left him. They wished to see how he took it. At five minutes before the hour a bell rang, and the door into the corridor was thrown open. “Come, gentlemen,” said the Prime Minister. The Council Chamber was a long high room on the first floor; its walls from floor to ceiling were lined with books. A noiseless rubber carpet was underfoot. There were no windows; the room was lighted artificially. A long table, set round with armed chairs, ran the length of the floor, eight on either side; and the Presidential chair, raised on a dais, stood at the head. Each man went straight to his chair in silence, and remained there, waiting. * * * * * The room was beautifully cool, in spite of the absence of windows, and was a pleasant contrast to the hot evening outside through which most of these men had come. They, too, had wondered at the surprising weather, and had smiled at the conflict of the infallible. But they were not thinking about that now: the coming of the President was a matter which always silenced the most loquacious. Besides, this time, they understood that the affair was more serious than usual. At one minute before the hour, again a bell sounded, four times, and ceased; and at the signal each man turned instinctively to the high sliding door behind the Presidential chair. There was dead silence within and without: the huge Government offices were luxuriously provided with sound-deadening apparatus, and not even the rolling of the vast motors within a hundred yards was able to send a vibration through the layers of rubber on which the walls rested. There was only one noise that could penetrate, and that the sound of thunder. The experts were at present unable to exclude this.