"Something that will keep till we are alone," replied the young man laconically. "On the whole, I'm glad we didn't know two days ago what I know now. It's best as it is, Paul. I can see you are terribly disappointed at not getting in, but, for my part, I'm glad. After all, business, with me, is more than politics. You should have waited, lad, waited till our position was safe, before you started this fight. Still, you couldn't help it. It was not your fault that the election came on this year instead of next, and the chaps meant to have you." "But tell me, what is it?" asked Paul. His mind had become so confused by the scenes of excitement through which he had passed that he could not realise the drift of his partner's words. "No," replied the other sternly; "let's wait until we get to your lodgings. We must be alone. I tell you, if you knew what you'll know now, when you were speaking from the balcony, there would have been a row. But, never mind, it's best as it is." They walked on through the narrow, comparatively deserted streets, until presently they arrived at a comfortable-looking house in the Liverpool Road, where Paul's rooms were now situated. "Now, then, tell me," said the young man, when they were seated. "Is everybody here gone to bed?" asked Standring, the man who had accompanied them, but who had not yet spoken. "Hours since," replied Paul. "No election ever fought would keep them out of bed after eleven o'clock." "That's well." And he took out a bundle of papers from his pocket and laid them on the table. "You don't expect me to read them to-night?" said Paul. "I tell you, I couldn't. My brain's too fagged." "No," replied Standring, "they need not be read tonight, but I put them there in case you should want to refer to them. They are proofs of what I'm going to tell you." Paul noted that this young fellow's voice was set and stern; he realised that the matter he wished to discuss was serious. He was a pale-faced, quiet-looking young fellow, this Enoch Standring, not given to talking much, or to assert himself to any great degree. Up to a year before he had been a book-keeper in one of the mills, and Paul, recognising in him what others had failed to see, had given him a position of trust in his own employ. Directly the circular to which I have referred was sent out to the voters of Brunford, Paul had instructed him to discover what it meant and who was the man who was responsible for it. Enoch Standring had something of the sleuthhound in his nature. For three days and nights he had worked. Almost without sleep, and with but little food, he had laboured quietly, unobtrusively, never arousing suspicions, but always effectively. And now he was prepared to give the result of that work. "You must cast your mind back a bit, Mr. Stepaside," he said, "and then ask yourself one thing. Is there anyone in Brunford who has a grudge against you?"