To put it plainly, a new House has grown up. The old austerity of legislation in the days of Palmerston and Beaconsfield has nearly disappeared, and to-day the gentlemen upon whom the right to add M.P. to their name is bestowed, find to their delight that legislation is really very largely an arrangement come to between the two front Benches. As Chisholm passed through the Lobby, pausing at Mr. Pike's office to obtain some letters, some one cried "Saunderson's up," and all the idlers knew that the debate upon another matter had commenced, and that "fun" might be expected. The Under-Secretary thrust the letters into his pocket, put on his overcoat, and walked back to the Foreign Office, where some documents were awaiting his signature, and where he had some instructions to give his secretary. On his way across Palace Yard and along Parliament Street his eyes were fixed upon the pavement, for he was deep in thought and heedless of all about him. He walked like a man in a dream. Before long the blow must fall, he told himself. How long would it be deferred? How many days of grace would his secret enemy give him? Hour after hour had he endeavoured to find some solution of the problem how to repel the threatened vengeance. But there seemed to be no satisfactory way--absolutely none. A word from him to his chief might save the situation. That would mean open and complete confession. No, he could not confess to the great statesman who had reposed such entire confidence in him, and who had given him the high and responsible office he now held. He could not; he dare not face the wrath of Lord Stockbridge, of all men. He had sinned, and must suffer. A dozen times during the past night as he had paced the silent streets of London the suggestion had occurred to him to resign everything and go abroad at once. Yet what would that avail him? To escape would be only to exhibit cowardice. The sleep from which there was no awakening was by far the best mode of release at which to aim. Upon a seat at the kerb in Piccadilly, with a ragged outcast as companion, he had sat a full hour in the most silent watch of the night thinking the matter over. After all, he told himself, he was little better than the shivering wretch beside him. And now, as he turned the corner of Downing Street, he sighed heavily, wondering on how many more occasions he would return to his official headquarters. Not many, alas! Nemesis was at his heels. That night he dined at his club, the Carlton, but returned to his chambers immediately afterwards. As he entered his sitting-room, a woman in a striking evening toilet of pale blue, turning from the fire, rose to greet him. It was Claudia Nevill. "My dear Dudley!" she cried, stretching forth both her hands to him. "I've been awaiting you for half an hour or more. Wherever have you been?"