Sixty years of public life. I was trying to remember whether Bertrand had known Westminster before the new Houses of Parliament were built, when Spence-Atkins, who was acting as an usher, touched my arm and asked if we had room in our pew for two more. I made way for Sonia, who crushed past me with scarlet cheeks, and for O’Rane, who allowed himself to be guided by a verger. His face, I thought, was white and set, with a suppressed anger which I had seen more often at school than in later years. I asked if anything was amiss; but he would only reply “Afterwards.” Then I relapsed into the past and forgot my surroundings until the last notes of the Dead March throbbed into silence. Outside I was surrounded by sympathetic friends; but, in the complete detachment of my anæsthesia, I was thinking only that I had time to see my solicitors before luncheon, when I found Sonia the centre of an agitated little group which O’Rane was trying alternately to soothe and to disperse. “No, I insist on telling George,” she proclaimed. “Did you hear what happened when we arrived? I don’t like being called a murderer!” The word—and, still more, the tone in which it was uttered—disturbed my dream of past days. “Who . . .?” I began. Then O’Rane, with mounting irritation as some queer sense warned him that a crowd was collecting, felt for my arm and led me away. “We don’t want a scene,” he whispered. “I’m sorry, George: I wouldn’t have come if I’d thought for a moment. . . . Our excellent friendship the Bishop of Poplar is unintentionally at the bottom of this. You remember his saying something about my condemning innocent people to death if I stopped the money I’ve been giving him the last few years? Well, that’s been taken up by Griffiths’ gang. We’ve had sandwichmen patrolling The Sanctuary all this week: O’RANE’S SENTENCE OF DEATH or something of the kind. I didn’t care; I wasn’t going to be blackmailed. Then, to-day, one of the reporters at the door asked my name; and somebody in the crowd overheard it. A few idiots thought it would be amusing to shout ‘murderer’. . . . Where’s Sonia? It’s time we got back.” As I led him to his wife, I observed that her cheeks were no longer flushed; she looked, indeed, unpleasantly scared, and her eyes were fixed on the avenue of loiterers between whom she must pass on her way home. “We’ll drop you,” Barbara suggested, with a quick movement towards the car. Sonia hurried gratefully to her side. “Thanks, Babs, I’ll walk,” said O’Rane obstinately. “Then I’ll walk with you,” I said. “This business is frightening your wife,” I added when we were alone. “Why don’t you tell the police to clear these sandwichmen away?”