"What happened next?" asked Kitty, who had rejoined us. (Phillis was still sleeping sweetly, she said.) "After that I hauled old Stridge on to the balcony again and gave him a congratulatory hand-shake, _coram populo_, on your behalf. Then I retired and slipped out by a back way and came here. Stridge was in full eruption again when I left----" Dolly held up her hand. "What is that curious noise?" she said. "It's outside," said Kitty. Gerald went to the window and lifted the blind. Then he turned to us. "I say," he said in an unusual voice, "come here a minute." We drew up the blind and surveyed the scene before us. Two minutes before the moon had shone upon an untrodden expanse of snow. Now the Close was black with people. There must have been two or three thousand. They stood there in the gleaming moonlight, silent, motionless, like an army of phantoms. At their head and forefront--I could see the moonlight glitter on his watch-chain, which lay in a most favourable position for lunar reflection--stood the newly elected Member for Stoneleigh, Mr Alderman Stridge. Simultaneously there was a knock at the door, and the hall-porter of the hotel appeared. "Mr Stridge's compliments, sir, and he would like to have a word with you." "Go down quickly, Adrian," said Kitty anxiously. "They'll wake Philly!" I descended without a word, and passed out into the Close from a French window on the ground floor. I glanced up in the direction of our rooms and noticed that my party were standing on the balcony outside the sitting-room. I could see Kitty's anxious face. But she need have had no fear. Mr Stridge advanced towards me, silk hat in hand. Behind him stood a variety of Stoneleigh worthies, and I had time to notice that the group was composed of an indiscriminate mixture of friends and foes. "Mr Inglethwaite, sir," said Stridge, "I should like to shake you by the hand." He did so, as did a few of those immediately around us, in perfect silence. I wondered what was coming. "That is all, sir," said Stridge simply, and not without a certain dignity. "We shall move off now. We did you a wrong to-night, and we all of us"--he indicated the motionless multitude with a sweep of his hand--"agreed to come here in silence, just for a moment, as an indication of our sympathy and--respect." I was unable to speak, which was not altogether surprising. There was something overwhelming about the dumb kindness of it all,--three thousand excited folk holding themselves in for fear of disturbing a sick child,--and I merely shook Stridge's hand again. However, I found my voice at last. "Mr Stridge," I said, "there is only one thing I will say in response to your kindness, but I think it is the one thing most calculated to reward you all for it. To-night my little girl's illness took a favourable turn. She is now fast asleep, and practically out of danger."