“I’m afraid we can do nothing now, Gordon,” he said, “and the Secretary of State is in the country and very ill.” “Where is the Under Secretary?” asked Dick desperately. “He’s at San Remo.” “How far out of town is Mr. Whitby’s house?” The official considered. “About thirty miles—this side of Tunbridge Wells,” and Dick wrote the address on a slip of paper. Half an hour later, a long yellow Rolls was flying across Westminster Bridge, threading the traffic with a recklessness which brought the hearts of hardened chauffeurs to their mouths; and forty minutes after he had left Whitehall, Dick was speeding up an elm-bordered avenue to the home of the Secretary of State. The butler who met him could give him no encouragement. “I’m afraid Mr. Whitby cannot see you, sir. He has a very bad attack of gout, and the doctors have told him that he mustn’t touch any kind of business whatever.” “This is a matter of life and death,” said Dick, “and I must see him. Or, failing him, I must see the King.” This message, conveyed to the invalid, produced an invitation to walk upstairs. “What is it, sir?” asked the Minister sharply as Dick came in. “I cannot possibly attend to any business whatever. I’m suffering the tortures of the damned with this infernal foot of mine. Now tell me, what is it?” Quickly Gordon related his discovery. “An astounding story,” said the Minister, and winced. “Where is the picture?” “In London, sir.” “I can’t come to London: it is humanly impossible. Can’t you get somebody at the Home Office to certify this? When is this man to be hanged?” “To-morrow morning, sir, at eight o’clock.” The Secretary of State considered, rubbing his chin irritably. “I should be no man if I refused to see this damned picture,” he said, and Dick made allowance for his language as he rubbed his suffering limb. “But I can’t go to town unless you get me an ambulance. You had better ’phone a garage in London to send a car down, or, better still, get one from the local hospital.” Everything seemed to be conspiring against him, for the local hospital’s ambulance was under repair, but at last Dick put through a message to town, with the promise that an ambulance would be on its way in ten minutes. “An extraordinary story, a perfectly amazing story! And of course, I can grant you a respite. Or, if I’m convinced of the truth of this astounding romance, we could get the King to-night; I could even promise you a reprieve. But my death will lie at your door if I catch cold.” Two hours passed before the ambulance came. The chauffeur had had to change his tyres twice on the journey. Very gingerly, accompanied by furious imprecations from the Cabinet Minister, his stretcher was lifted into the ambulance.