The strain was broken by Saxenham getting to his feet. I knew his record, and I could guess what his feelings must have been. He stood there, a pathetic little figure, with shaking hands and dim eyes, a worshipper who had found his god only a broken image. He turned and looked at us in a pitiful way and then faced round to the wrecker. “Nordenholt,” he said, “he doesn’t deny it. Is it really true? Can you give me your word?” Nordenholt’s face became very gentle and all the hardness died out of his voice. “Yes, Saxenham, it is true. I give you my word of honour for its truth. He can’t deny it.” “Then I’ve backed a lie. I believed him. And now I’ve misled people. I’ve gone on to platforms and denied the truth of it; pledged my word that it was a malicious falsehood. Oh! I can’t face it, Nordenholt. I can’t face it. This finishes me with public service. I--I----” He covered his face with his hands and I could see the tears trickle between his fingers. He had paid his price for being honest. But the Premier was of sterner stuff. He looked up at Nordenholt at last with a gleam of hatred which he suppressed almost as it came: “Well, Nordenholt, what’s your price?” “So you’ve seen reason, Biles? Not like poor Saxenham, eh?” There was an under-current of bitterness in the tone, but it was almost imperceptible. “Well, it’s not hard. You take your orders from me now. You cover me with your full responsibility. You understand? You always were good at assuming responsibility. Have it now.” “Do I understand you to mean that you would like to be a Dictator?” “No, you haven’t got it quite correctly. I _mean_ to be Dictator.” The Prime Minister had relapsed into his stony attitude. There was no trace of feeling on his face; but I could understand the mental commotion which must lie behind that blank countenance. Under cover of fine phrases, he had always sought the lowest form of Party advantage; his political nostrum had become part and parcel of his individuality, and he had never looked higher than the intricacies of the Parliamentary game. Now, suddenly, he had been brought face to face with reality; and it had broken him. To do him justice, I believe that he might have faced personal discredit with indifference. He had done it before and escaped with his political life. But Nordenholt had struck him on an even more vital spot. If the Mazanderan affair came into the daylight, his Party would be ruined; and he would have been responsible. I give him the credit of supposing that it was upon the larger and not upon the personal issue that he surrendered. Nordenholt, having gained his object, refrained from going further. He turned away from the upper end of the table and addressed the rest of us.