Paul leaned back in his leather writing chair, smoking a cigarette and focussing the electioneering situation.  Beside a sheet of foolscap on which he had been jotting down notes lay in neat piles the typewritten Report of the Forlorn Widows’ Fund, the account book and the banker’s pass book.  He had sat up till three o’clock in the morning preparing for his Princess.  Nothing now remained but the formal “examined and found correct” report of the auditors.  For the moment the Forlorn Widows stood leagues away from Paul’s thoughts.  He had passed a strenuous day at Hickney Heath, lunching in the committee room on sandwiches and whisky and soda obtained from the nearest tavern, talking, inventing, dictating, writing, playing upon dull minds the flashes of his organizing genius.  His committee was held up for the while by a dark rift in the Radical camp.  They had not yet chosen their man.  Nothing was known, save that a certain John Questerhayes, K. C., an eminent Chancery barrister, who had of late made himself conspicuous in the constituency, had been turned down on the ground that he was not sufficiently progressive.  Now for comfort to the Radical the term “Progressive” licks the blessed word Mesopotamia into a cocked hat.  Under the Progressive’s sad-coloured cloak he need not wear the red tie of the socialist.  Apparently Mr. Questerhayes objected to the sad-coloured cloak, the mantle of Elijah, M. P., the late member for Hickney Heath.  “Wanted:  an Elisha,” seemed to be the cry of the Radical Committee.

Paul leaned back, his elbows on the arms of his chair, his finger tips together, a cigarette between his lips, lost in thought.  The early November twilight deepened in the room.  He was to address a meeting that night.  In order to get ready for his speech he had not allowed himself to be detained, and had come home early.  His speech had been prepared; but the Radical delay was a new factor of which he might take triumphant advantage.  Hence the pencil notes on the sheet of foolscap, before him.

A man-servant came in, turned on the electric light, pulled the curtains together and saw to the fire.

“Tea’s in the drawing-room, sir.”

“Bring me some here in a breakfast cup—­nothing to eat,” said Paul.

Even his dearest lady could not help him in his meditated attack on the enemy whom the Lord was delivering into his hands.

The man-servant went away.  Presently Paul heard him reenter the room; the door was at his back.  He threw out an impatient hand behind him.  “Put it down anywhere, Wilton, I’ll have it when I want it.”

“I beg pardon, sir,” said the man, coming forward, “but it’s not the tea.  There’s a gentleman and a lady and another person would like to see you.  I said that you were busy, sir, but—­”

He put the silver salver, with its card, in front of Paul.  Printed on the card was, “Mr. Silas Finn.”  In pencil was written:  “Miss Seddon, Mr. William Simmons.”