Part 31 (1/2)

”I believe it'll frighten two or three anyhow,” observed Norburn.

”I _know_ we shall win to-morrow,” cried Daisy, squeezing her father's arm.

”Ah! here's a special Sunday evening paper--how we encourage wickedness!” said the Premier, seeing a newsvendor approaching. ”Let's see what they say of us!”

”I've seen it all for myself,” remarked Daisy, and she went on chattering to the other two, who were ready to talk over every incident of the meeting, as people who have been to meetings ever are. On they went, reminding one another of the bald man in the third row who cheered so l.u.s.tily, of the fat woman who had somehow got into the front row and fanned herself all the time, of rude things shouted about Messrs.

Puttock and c.o.xon, and so forth. The Premier, listening with one ear, opened his paper; but the first thing he saw was not about his procession. He started and looked closer, then gave a sudden, covert glance at his companions; they were busy in talk, and, with breathless haste, he devoured the meagre details of Benham's wretched death. The end reached, he let the paper fall on his knees, lay back, and took a long pull at his cigar. He was shocked--yes, he supposed he was shocked. He had known the man, and it was shocking to think of his throat being cut; yes, he had known him, and he didn't like to think of that. But--The Premier gave a long-drawn sigh of relief. That unknown murderer's hand had done great things for him. His daughter was safe now--anyhow, she was safe. She could never be subject to the degradation the dead man had once hinted at; and when he thought of what the man had threatened, pity for him died out of Medland's heart. More--although Kilshaw no doubt knew something--there was a chance that Benham had kept his own counsel, and that his employer would be helpless without his aid. Medland's sanguine mind caught eagerly at the chance, and in a moment turned it into a hope--almost a conviction. Then the whole thing would go down to the grave with the unlucky man, and not even its spectre survive to trouble him. For if no one had certain knowledge, if there were never more than gossip, growing, as time pa.s.sed, fainter and fainter from having no food to feed on, would not utter silence follow at last, so that the things that had been might be as if they had never been?

”Well, what do they say about us?” asked the Treasurer.

”Oh, nothing much,” he answered, thrusting the paper behind him with a careless air. He did not want to discuss what the paper had told him.

”What's happened to-day,” said Daisy, ”ought to make all the difference, oughtn't it, father?”

”I hope it will,” replied the Premier; but, for once in his life, he was not thinking most about political affairs.

CHAPTER XX.

THE LAW _VERSUS_ RULE 3.

Among the many tired but satisfied lovers of liberty who sought their houses that night, while an enthusiastic remnant was still parading the streets, illuminations yet s.h.i.+ning from windows, and weary police treading their unending beats, was the doorkeeper, who had borne a banner in Company A of Procession 1. His friend the watchmaker came with him, to have a bit of supper and exchange congratulations and fulminations. Hardly, however, had the doorkeeper pledged the cause in a first draught when his wife broke in on his oration by handing him a letter, which she said a boy in a blue jersey had left for him about ten o'clock in the morning, just after he had started to join his company.

The envelope was cheap and coa.r.s.e; there was no direction outside. The doorkeeper opened it. It was addressed to no named person and it bore no signature. It was very brief, being confined to these simple words--”You did not see me last night. Remember Rule 3.”

The doorkeeper laid the letter down, with a hurried glance at his friend, whose face was buried in a mug. He knew the handwriting; he knew who it was that he had not seen; he remembered Rule 3, the rule that said--”The only and inevitable penalty of treachery is death.” He turned white and took a hasty gulp at his liquor.

”Who brought this?” he asked.

”I told you,” answered his wife; ”a lad in a blue jersey; he looked as if he might be from the harbour.” She put food before them, adding as she did so--”I suppose you've been too full of your politics to hear much about the murder?”

”The murder?” exclaimed the watchmaker. The doorkeeper crumpled up his letter and stuffed it into the pocket of his coat, while his wife read to them the story of the discovery. The watchmaker listened with interest.

”Benham!” he remarked. ”I never heard the name, did you?”

”You know him, Ned,” said the doorkeeper's wife; ”him as Mr. Gaspard used to go about with.”

By a sudden common impulse, the eyes of the two men met; the woman went off to brew them a pot of tea, and left them fearfully gazing at one another.

”What stuff!” said the watchmaker uneasily. ”It was only his blow. What reason had he--?” He paused and added, ”Seen him to-day, Ned?”

”No,” answered Ned, fingering his note.

”Wasn't he in the procession?”

”I didn't see him.”

”When did you see him last?”