There was a murmur of approval. A lank, rawboned Yorkshireman--David Sands--a Wesleyan enthusiast, a local preacher, leaned across the table, his voice shaking with earnestness: “It’s true!” he exclaimed. “It’s the word of God! It’s for us to stop the war. If we stop it to-night instead of to-morrow, a thousand lives may be saved, human lives, lives of our fellow creatures. Our fellow labourers in Germany have given us the chance. Don’t let us delay five minutes. Let the one of us you may select see the Prime Minister to-night and deliver the people’s message.” “There’s no cause for delay that I can see,” Cross approved. “There is none,” Fenn assented heartily. “I propose that we proceed to the election of our representative; that, having elected him, we send him to the Prime Minister with our message, and that we remain here in the building until we have his report.” “You are unanimously resolved, then,” the Bishop asked, “to take this last step?” There was a little chorus of assent. Fenn leaned forward in his place. “Everything is ready,” he announced. “Our machinery is perfect. Our agents in every city await the mandate.” “But do you imagine that those last means will be necessary?” the Bishop enquired anxiously. “Most surely I do,” Fenn replied. “Remember that if the people make peace for the country, it is the people who will expect to govern the country. It will be a notice to the politicians to quit. They know that. It is my belief that they will resist, tooth and nail.” Bright glanced at his watch. “The Prime Minister,” he announced, “will be at Downing Street until nine o’clock. It is now seven o’clock. I propose that we proceed without any further delay to the election of our representative.” “The voting cards,” Fenn pointed out, “are before each person. Every one has two votes, which must be for two different representatives. The cards should then be folded, and I propose that the Bishop, who is not a candidate, collect them. As I read the unwritten rules of this Congress, every one here is eligible except the Bishop, Miss Abbeway, Mr. Orden and Mr. Furley.” There was a little murmur. Phineas Cross leaned forward in his place. “Here, what’s that?” he exclaimed. “The Bishop, and Miss Abbeway, we all know, are outside the running. Mr. Furley, too, represents the educated Socialists, and though he is with us in this, he is not really Labour. But Mr. Orden--Paul Fiske, eh? That’s a different matter, isn’t it?” “Mr. Orden,” Fenn pronounced slowly, “is a literary man. He is a sympathiser with our cause, but he is not of it.”