"Listen to me. Do you know that the government were on the verge of concluding a most far-reaching treaty with that man? Do you know that the position was just touch-and-go? The concessions we were prepared to make would have cost the State thirty million pounds, and it would have been cheap. Do you hear that? It would have been cheap! Bakkan is one of the most vulnerable outposts of the Empire. It is a terrible danger-zone. If certain powers can usurp our authority--and, mark you, the whole blamed place is already riddled with this new pernicious doctrine--you know what I mean--before we know where we are the whole East will be in a blaze. India! My God! This contract we were negotiating would have countered this outward thrust. And you, you blockhead, you come here and insult the man upon whose word the whole thing depends." "I really can't see, sir, how I should know all this." "You can't see it! But, you fool, you seemed to go out of your way. You insulted him about the merest quibble--in my house!" "He said he knew where Wych Street was. He was quite wrong. I corrected him." "Wych Street! Wych Street be damned! If he said Wych Street was in the moon, you should have agreed with him. There was no call to act in the way you did. And you--you think of going into politics!" The somewhat cynical inference of this remark went unnoticed. Lowes-Parlby was too unnerved. He mumbled: "I'm very sorry." "I don't want your sorrow. I want something more practical." "What's that, sir?" "You will drive straight to Mr. Sandeman's, find him, and apologize. Tell him you find that he was right about Wych Street after all. If you can't find him to-night, you must find him to-morrow morning. I give you till midday to-morrow. If by that time you have not offered a handsome apology to Mr. Sandeman, you do not enter this house again, you do not see my daughter again. Moreover, all the power I possess will be devoted to hounding you out of that profession you have dishonoured. Now you can go." Dazed and shaken, Lowes-Parlby drove back to his flat at Knightsbridge. Before acting he must have time to think. Lord Vermeer had given him till to-morrow midday. Any apologizing that was done should be done after a night's reflection. The fundamental purposes of his being were to be tested. He knew that. He was at a great crossing. Some deep instinct within him was grossly outraged. Is it that a point comes when success demands that a man shall sell his soul? It was all so absurdly trivial--a mere argument about the position of a street that had ceased to exist. As Lord Vermeer said, what did it matter about Wych Street? Of course he should apologize. It would hurt horribly to do so, but would a man sacrifice everything on account of some footling argument about a street?