They passed out into the cool night. Lord Sydenham removed his hat and walked for some distance, carrying it in his hand. Suddenly he turned to his companion. "Strone," he said, "you must join us." Strone laughed--enigmatically. "I am handicapped," he remarked, "with principles. Besides, imagine the horror with which your old-fashioned Conservatives would regard my social schemes. It is impossible." "I hope to convince you," Lord Sydenham said earnestly, "that it is nothing of the sort. In the first place, I want you to remember that during the last ten years a marvelous change has transformed the relative positions of the two great political parties. The advent of the Liberal Unionists into our ranks was the consummation of what was fast becoming inevitable. To-day it is the Conservative party who are the party of progress. It is the party to which you must naturally belong." "In the event of your refusal, let me ask you seriously whether you realize what you are doing. You have rare gifts--you have all the qualities of the successful politician. I offer you a firm footing upon the ladder--your ascent is a certainty. I will not appeal to your personal ambition. I appeal to your religion." Strone looked up with a queer smile. "My religion?" "Yes! I use the word in the broadest sense. Consciously or unconsciously, you have proclaimed it in your conversation--the House--the reviews. If you are not one of those who love their fellow-men, you, at least, have a pity for them so profound that it has become the _motif_ of your life. It is a great cause, yours, Strone. You have made it your own. None but you can do it justice. Think of the submerged millions who have been waiting many years for a prophet to call them up from the depths. You have put on the mantle. Dare you cast it away?" "Never in your life," he said, "will there come to you such an opportunity as this. I offer you a place in the party which will be in the majority next session--the lawmakers. I offer you also my own personal support of the Labor measures we have discussed. It must be yes or no by to-morrow." When Strone let himself into his house a few moments later the room on the ground floor was almost in total darkness. "Milly!" No answer. Yet she was in the room, for he could hear her heavy breathing and trace the dim outline of her form upon the sofa. An ugly suspicion seized him. He turned up the gas and groaned. An empty tumbler lay on the ground beside her. Strone bent over her. This was the woman to whom he was chained for all his days, whom he had pledged himself to love and cherish, the woman who bore his name, and who must rise with him to whatever heights his ambition and genius might command. There was no escape--there never could be any escape. He walked restlessly up and down the room. The woman slept on.