“I remember, only a few nights ago,” she reflected, “I was staying at a country house--Lord Maltenby’s, by the bye--Mr. Orden’s father. The Prime Minister was there and another Cabinet Minister. They spoke of the Labour Party and its leaderless state. They had no idea, of course, of the great Council which was already secretly formed, but they were unanimous about the necessity for a strong leader. Two people made the same remark, almost with apprehension: ‘If ever Paul Fiske should materialise, the problem would be solved!’” Fenn assented without enthusiasm. “After all, though,” he reminded her, “a clever writer does not always make a great speaker, nor has he always that personality and distinction which is required in this case. He would come amongst us a stranger, too--a stranger personally, that is to say.” “Not in the broadest sense of the word,” Catherine objected. “Paul Fiske is more than an ordinary literary man. His heart is in tune with what he writes. Those are not merely eloquent words which he offers. There is a note of something above and beyond just phrase-making--a note of sympathetic understanding which amounts to genius.” Her companion stroked his moustache for a moment. “Fiske goes right to the spot,” he admitted, “but the question of the leadership, so far as he is concerned, doesn’t come into the sphere of practical politics. It has been suggested, Miss Abbeway, by one or two of the more influential delegates, suggested, too, by a vast number of letters and telegrams which have poured in upon us during the last few days, that I should be elected to this vacant post.” “You?” she exclaimed, a little blankly. “Can you think of a more suitable person?” he asked, with a faint note of truculence in his tone. “You have seen us all together. I don’t wish to flatter myself, but as regards education, service to the cause, familiarity with public speaking and the number of those I represent--” “Yes, yes! I see,” she interrupted. “Taking the twenty Labour representatives only, Mr. Fenn, I can see nothing against your selection, but I fancied, somehow, that some one outside--the Bishop, for instance--” “Absolutely out of the question,” Fenn declared. “The people would lose faith in the whole thing in a minute. The person who throws down the gage to the Prime Minister must have the direct mandate of the people.” They finished dinner presently. Fenn looked with admiration at the gold, coroneted case from which Catherine helped herself to one of her tiny cigarettes. He himself lit an American cigarette. “I had meant, Miss Abbeway,” he confided, leaning towards her, “to suggest a theatre to you to-night--in fact, I looked at some dress circle seats at the Gaiety with a view to purchasing. Another matter has cropped up, however. There is a little business for us to do.” “Business?” Catherine repeated. He produced a folded paper from his pocket and passed it across the table. Catherine read it with a slight frown.