There was a herd of carriages at the entrance to the famous ball-room; and under the awnings he encountered the quick, natty figure of the much-liked Finacune--seized the shoulders of the little man affectionately. “Hello, old heart--my first glimpse of a white man in the Home-zone----” Finacune turned in an abrupt, unnerved way. “Why, how d’ do, Routledge?” he mumbled throatily. His right hand had jerked toward the other from habit, but was withdrawn without the clasp. “How d’ do? Comin’ in, I s’pose?” With this astonishing greeting, the _Word_ man leaped up the stone steps and left his “mystic of the wars” beneath the dripping canopy, not a little perturbed. The rather intent regard of the cab-starter pulled Routledge from his reflecting after a moment, and he followed Finacune into the Hall, being shown at once to the gentlemen’s coat-room. Apparently Finacune had shed his outer garment with incredible speed, for he was not there; nor any other guests. Routledge’s first thought was that a joke was being perpetrated at his expense, Finacune’s action merely preparing the way, but he could not hold fast to this. His whole nature was sensitive at once to a formidable disorder. His name trembled above the sense-stirring music as he stepped upon the floor of the brilliant hall. It was a distinguished company of admirals, generals, civilian campaigners, and exalted representatives of the Home, Foreign, and Colonial Departments; the bravest men of the kingdom, perhaps; certainly some of the fairest women. The throng moved about in a slow, suppressed way; and the faces turned toward him not gladly, not pointedly, but in a quick, secretive, on-the-defensive fashion, as upon some huge agent of menace and craft. With difficulty, Routledge controlled the muscles of his face. The public speaker knows the moment. Here is straightforward testimony of the power of mind over matter. That first volume of abhorrence and distrust which his eyes had ever met, seemed to rub out his features and weave its own image upon the flesh. He never forgot the sensation. Women craned their heads behind the shoulders of the men. A steward passed before him, fell into the current of hatred, and his face altered visibly. Routledge summoned all his resistance and smiled. He understood instantly that only a few of the men, the most valued tools of the kingdom, knew the specific allegation, and that by the others he was charged with some dreadful generality. Finacune had disappeared. Jerry Cardinegh had not arrived. Trollope, that goodly bullock of a man, most slow of all to be blown in a gale of popular opinion, stood nearest to Routledge. The two faced each other fixedly. “I say, brother, what’s up?” Routledge inquired lightly. “I was thinking of interviewing you on the matter--not for publication, of course, but for my own curiosity,” was the puzzling answer. Routledge quickly stepped forward, but Trollope turned away.