SECRET HISTORY

Under succeeding administrations, each pledged to a larger policy to themselves and a smaller one towards every one else, most of the traditional outward forms of government had continued to be observed. Thus there was a Minister for the Colonies, though the Colonies themselves had shamefacedly one by one dropped off into the troubled waters of weak independence, or else clung on with pathetic loyalty in spite of rebuff after rebuff, and the disintegration of all mutual interests, until nothing but the most shadowy bond remained. There was a Secretary of State for War in spite of the fact that the flag which the Government nailed to the mast when it entered into negotiations with an aggrieved and aggressive Power, bore the legend, “Peace at any Price. None but a Coward Strikes the Weak.” There had been more than one First Lord of the Admiralty whose maritime experience had begun and ended on the familiar deck of the Koh-I-Noor. There were practically all the usual officers of ministerial rank and the recipients of ministerial salaries.

Apart from the enjoyment of the title and the salary, however, there were a few members of the Cabinet who exercised no real authority. Lord Henry Stokes had been the last of upper class politicians of standing to accept office under the new regime. Largely in sympathy with the democratic tendency of the age, optimistic as to the growth of moderation and restraint in the ranks of the mushroom party, and actuated by the most sterling patriotism, Lord Henry had essayed the superhuman task of premiership. Superhuman it was, because no mortal could have combined the qualities necessary for success in the face of the fierce distrust and jealousy which his rank and social position excited in the minds of the rawer recruits of his own party; superhuman, because no man possessing his convictions could have long reconciled with them the growing and not diminishing illiberality of those whom he was to lead. There were dissensions, suspicions, and recriminations from the first. The end came in a tragic scene, unparalleled among the many historic spectacles which the House has witnessed. A trivial point in the naval estimates was under discussion, and Lord Henry, totally out of sympathy with the bulk of his nominal following, had risen to patch up the situation on the best terms he could. At the end of a studiously moderate speech, which had provoked cheers from the opposition and murmurs of dissent from his own party throughout, he had wound up his plea for unity, toleration, and patriotism, with the following words: “It is true that here no Government measure is at stake, no crisis is involved, and honourable members on this side of the House are free of party trammels and at liberty to vote as seems best to each. But if the motion should be persisted in, an inevitable conclusion must be faced, an irretrievable step will have been taken, and of the moral outcome of that act who dare trace the end?”

There was just a perceptible pause of sullen silence, then from among the compact mass that sat behind their leader rose a coarse voice, charged with a squiggling laugh.

“We give it up, ’Enry. If it’s a riddle about morals, suppose you ask little Flo?”

It was an aside it was afterwards claimed that it was a drunken whisper but it was heard, as it was meant to be heard, throughout the crowded Chamber. From the opposition ranks there was torn a cry, almost of horror, at the enormity of the insult, at the direful profanation of the House. Responsible members of the Government turned angrily, imploringly, frantically upon their followers. At least half of these, sitting pained and scandalised, needed no restraint, but from the malcontents and extreme wings came shriek upon shriek of boisterous mirth, as they rocked with laughter about their seats. As for Lord Henry, sitting immobile as he scanned a paper in his hand, he did not appear to have heard at first, nor even to have noticed that anything unusual was taking place. But the next minute he turned deadly pale, began to tremble violently, and with a low and hurried, “Your help, Meadowsweet!” he stumbled from the Hall.

For twenty years he had been a member of the House, years of full-blooded politics when party strife ran strong, but never before had the vaguest innuendo from that deep-seared, unforgotten past dropped from an opponent’s lips. It had been reserved for his own party to achieve that distinction and to exact the crowning phase of penance in nature’s inexorable cycle.

Apologists afterwards claimed that too much had been made of the incident that much worse things were often said, and passed, at the meetings of Boards of Guardians and Borough Councils. It was as true as it was biting: worse things were said at Borough Councils, and the Mother of Parliaments had sunk to the rhetorical level of a Borough Council.

Stokes never took his seat again, and with him there passed out of that arena the last of a hopeful patriotic group, whose only failure was that they tried to reconcile two irreconcilable forces of their times.

It did not result, however, that no men of social position were to be found among the Labour benches. There was a demand, and there followed the supply. Rank, mediocrity, and moral obsequiousness were the essentials for their posts. There were no more Stokeses to be had, so obliging creatures were obtained who were willing for a consideration to be paraded as the successors to his patriotic mantle. They were plainly made to understand their position, and if they ventured to show individuality they soon resigned. Nominally occupying high offices, they had neither influence, power, nor respect; like Marlborough in compliance they had “to do it for their bread.” They were ruled by their junior lords, assistants, and underlings in various degrees. Many of these men, too strong to be ignored, were frankly recognised to be impossible in the chief offices of State. As a consequence the Cabinet soon became an empty form. Its councils were still held, but the proceedings were cut and dried in advance. The real assembly that dictated the policy of the Government was the Expediency Council, held informally as the necessity arose.

The gathering which was taking place at the Premier’s house on this occasion had been convened for the purpose of clearing the air with regard to the policy to be pursued at home. The Government had come into power with very liberal ideas on the question of what ought to be done for the working classes. They had made good their promises, and still that free and enlightened body, having found by experience that they only had to ask often enough and loudly enough to be met in their demands, were already clamouring for more. The most moderate section of the Government was of opinion that the limit had been reached; others thought that the limit lay yet a little further on; the irresponsibles denied that any limit could be fixed at all. That had been the experience of every administration for a long time past, and each one in turn had been succeeded by its malcontents.

Mr Strummery, the Premier, did not occupy the official residence provided for him. Mrs Strummery, an excellent lady who had once been heard to remark that she could never understand why her husband was called Prime Minister when he was not a minister at all, flatly declared that the work of cleaning the windows alone of the house in Downing Street put it out of the question. Even Mr Strummery, who, among his political associates, was reported to have rather exalted ideas of the dignity of his position, came to the conclusion, after fully considering the residence from every standpoint, that he might not feel really at home there. It was therefore let, furnished, to an American lady who engineered wealthy debutantes from her native land into “the best” English society, and the Strummerys found more congenial surroundings in Brandenburg Place. There, within a convenient distance of the Hampstead Road and other choice shopping centres, Mrs Strummery, like the wife of another eminent statesman whose statue stood almost within sight of her bedroom windows, was able to indulge in her amiable foible for cheap marketing. And if the two ladies had this in common, the points of resemblance between their respective lords (the moral side excluded) might be multiplied many-fold, for no phrase put into Mr Strummery’s mouth could epigrammatise his point of view more concisely than Fox’s inopportune toast, “Our Sovereign: the People.” History’s dispassionate comment was that the sentiment which lost the abler man his Privy Councillorship in his day, gained for the other a Premiership a century later.

“One thing that gets me is why no one ever seems to take any notice of us when we have a Council on,” remarked the President of the Board of Education with an involuntary plaint in his voice. He was standing on the balcony outside the large front room on Mr Strummery’s first floor a room which boasted the noble proportions of a salon, and possibly served as one in Georgian days. Certainly Brandenburg Place did not present a spectacle of fluttering animation at the prospect of seeing the great ones of the land assembling within its bounds. At one end of the thoroughfare a milkman was going from area to area with a prolonged melancholy cry more suggestive of Stoke Poges churchyard than of any other spot on earth; at the opposite end a grocer’s errand boy, with basket resourcefully inverted upon his head, had sunk down by the railings to sip the nectar from a few more pages of “Iroquois Ike’s Last Hope; or, The Phantom Cow-Puncher’s Bride.” Midway between the two a cat, in the act of crossing the road, had stopped to twitch a forepaw with that air of imperturbable deliberateness in its movements that no other created thing can ever succeed in attaining. In a house opposite some one was rattling off the exhilarating strains of “Humming Ephraim,” but even when a hansom cab and two four-wheelers drove up in quick succession to the Premier’s door, no one betrayed curiosity to the extent of looking out of the window. The Minister of Education noted these things as he stood on the balcony, and possibly he felt another phase of the gratitude of men that often left Mr Wordsworth mourning. “I can remember the time when crowds used to wait hours in the rain along Downing Street our people, too to catch a sight of Estair or Nettlebury. I won’t exactly say that it annoys me, because I’ve seen too much of the hollowness of things for that, but it certainly is rummy why it should be so.”

“A very good thing, too,” commented the Premier briskly from the room. “I don’t know that we could have a greater compliment. The people know that we are plain, straightforward men like themselves, and they know that we are doing our work without having to come and see us at it. They don’t regard us almost as little deities interesting to see, but quite different and above themselves. That’s why.”

Every one in the room said “Hear! Hear!” as though that exactly defined his own sentiments; and every one in the room looked rather sad, as though at the back of their collective minds there lurked a doubt whether it might not be more pleasant to be regarded almost as little deities.

“You needn’t go as far back as Estair and Nettlebury,” put in Vossit of the Treasury. “See how they fairly ’um round Hampden whenever he’s about.”

“Not us,” interposed another man emphatically. “Let them go on their own messin’ way; it’ll do us no harm. You never saw a working man at any of their high and mighty meetings.”

“So much the worse, for they didn’t want them. But there ought to have been working men there, from the very first meeting until now.” The speaker was one of the most recent additions to the potent circle of the Brandenburg Place councils, and the freedom of criticism which he allowed himself had already been the subject of pained comment on the part of a section of his seniors.

“Well,” suggested some one, with politely-pointed meaning, “I don’t know what’s to prevent one individual from attending a meeting if he so wants. He’d probably find one going on somewhere at this minute if he looked round hard. Doesn’t seem to me that any one’s holding him back.”

“Now, now,” reproved Mr Guppling, the Postmaster-General, “let the man speak if he has anything on his mind. Come now, comrade, what do you mean?”

“I don’t know what I mean,” replied the comrade, at which there was a general shout of laughter. “I don’t know what I mean,” he continued, having secured general attention by this simple device of oratory, “because I am told in those Government quarters where I ought to be able to find information, that no information has been collected, no systematic enquiries made, nothing is known, in fact. Therefore, I do not know what I mean because I do not know none of us know what the Unity League means. But I know this: that a hostile organisation of over a million and a half strong 

Dissent came forcibly from every quarter of the room. “Not half!” was the milder form it took.

“  of over a million and a half strong,” continued the speaker grimly “perhaps more, in fact, than all our Trades Unions put together with an income very little less than what all the Trades Unions put together used to have, and funds in hand probably more, is a living menace in our midst, and ought to have been closely watched.”

“It keeps ’em quiet,” urged the Foreign Under-Secretary.

“Too quiet. I don’t like my enemy to be quiet. I prefer him to be talking large and telling us exactly what he’s going to do.”

“They’re going to chuck us out, Tirrel; that’s what they’re going to do,” said a sarcastic comrade playfully. “So was the Buttercup League, so was the Liberal-Conservative alliance. Lo, history repeats itself!”

“I see a long line of strong men fallen in the past premiers, popes, kings, generals, ambassadors,” replied Tirrel. “They all took it for granted that when they had got their positions they could keep them without troubling about their enemies any more. That’s generally the repeating point in history.”

Mr Strummery felt that the instances were perhaps getting too near home. “Come, come, chaps, and Comrade Tirrel in particular,” he said mildly, “don’t imagine that nothing is being done in the proper quarter because you mayn’t hear much talk about it. Our Executives work and don’t talk. I think that you may trust our good comrade Tubes to keep an eye on the Unity League.”

“Wish he’d keep an eye on the clock,” murmured a captious member. “Not once,” he added conclusively, “but three times out of four.”

There was a vigorous knock at the front door, and the hurried footsteps of some one ascending the stairs with the consciousness that he was late.

“Talk of Tubes and you’ll have a puncture,” confided a comrade of humorous bent to his neighbour, and on the words the Home Secretary, certainly with very little breath left in him, entered the room and made his apologies.

The special business for which the Council had been called together was to consider a series of reports from the constituencies, and to decide how to be influenced by their tenor. The Government had no desire to wait for a general election in order to find out the views of the electors of the country; given a close summary of those sentiments, it might be possible to fall in with their wishes, and thereby to be spared the anxiety of an election until their septennial existence had run its course; or, if forced by the action of their own malcontents to take that unwelcome step, at least to cut the ground from beneath their opponents’ feet in advance.

If there was not complete unanimity among those present, there was no distinct line of variance. Men of the extremest views had naturally not been included, and although the prevailing opinion was that the conditions of labour had been put upon a fair and equitable basis during their tenure of office or as far in that direction as it was possible to go without utterly stampeding capitalists and ratepayers from the country there were many who were prepared to go yet a little further if it seemed desirable.

Judging from the summarised reports, it did seem desirable. From the mills of Lancashire and Yorkshire, the coal-pits of the north and west, the iron fields of the Midlands, the quarries of Derbyshire, the boot factories of Northampton and the lace factories of Nottingham, from every swarming port around the coast, and from that vast cosmopolitan clearing house, the Capital itself, came the same tale. The people did not find themselves so well off as they wished to be; they were, in fact, rather poorer than before. There was nothing local about it. The Thurso flag-stone hewer shared the symptoms with his Celtic brother, digging out tin and copper from beneath the Atlantic waters beyond Pendeen; the Pembroke dock-hand and the Ipswich mechanic were in just the same position. When industries collapsed, as industries had an unhappy character for doing about the period, no one had any reserves. It was possible to live by provision of the Government, but the working man had been educated up to requiring a great deal more than bare living. When wages went down in spite of all artificial inflation, or short time was declared, a great many working-class houses, financed from week to week but up to the hilt in debt, went down too. The agricultural labourer was the least disturbed; he had had the least done for him, and he had never known a “boom.” The paradox remained that with more money the majority of the poor were poorer than before, and they were worse than poor, for they were dissatisfied. The remedy, of course, was for some one to give them still more money, not for them to spend less. The shortest way to that remedy, as they had been well taught by their agitators in the past, was to clamour for the Government to do something else for them, and therefore they were clamouring now.

“That is the position,” announced Mr Tubes, when he had finished reading the general summary. “The question it raises may not be exactly urgent, but it is at least pressing. On the one hand, there is the undoubted feeling of grievance existing among a large proportion of electors our own people. On the other hand, there is the serious question of national finances not to be overlooked. As the matter is one that must ultimately concern me more closely than anybody else, I will reserve my own opinion to the last.”

The view taken by those present has already been indicated. Their platform was that of Moderate Socialism; they wished it always to be understood that they were practical. They had the interest of their fellow working men (certainly of no other class of the community) at heart, but as Practical Socialists they had a suspicion (taking the condition of the Exchequer into consideration) that for the moment they had reached the limit of Practical Socialism. There was an undoubted dilemma. If a mistake of policy on their part let in the impractical Socialists, the result would be disastrous. Most of them regarded the danger as infinitesimal; like every other political party during the last two centuries, they felt that they could rely on the “sound common-sense of the community.” Still, admitting a possibility, even if it was microscopic, might it not be more say practically socialistic (the word “patriotic” had long been expunged from their vocabulary) in the end to make some slight concessions? If there existed a more material inducement it was not referred to, and any ingenuous comrade, using as an argument in favour of compliance a homely proverb anent the inadvisability of quarrelling with one’s bread and butter, would have been promptly discouraged. Yet, although the actors themselves in this great morality play apparently overlooked the consideration, it is impossible for the spectator to ignore the fact. Some few members of the Cabinet might have provided for a rainy day, but even to many of official class, and practically to all of the rank and file, a reversal at the polls must mean that they would have to give up a variety of highly-esteemed privileges and return to private life in less interesting capacities, some in very humble ones indeed.

It ended, as it was bound to end, in compromise. They would not play into the hands of the extreme party and ignore the voice of the constituencies; they would not be false to their convictions and be dictated to by the electors. They would decline to bring in the suggested Minimum Wage Bill, and they would not impose the Personal Property Tax. They would meet matters by extending the National Obligations Act, and save money on the Estimates. They would be sound, if commonplace.

The formal proceedings having been concluded, it was open for any one to introduce any subject he pleased in terms of censure, enquiry or discussion. Comrade Tirrel was on his feet at once, and returned to the subject that lay heavy on his mind.

“Is the Home Secretary in possession of any confidential information regarding the Unity League?” he demanded; “and can he assure us, in view of the admittedly hostile object of the organisation, that adequate means are being taken to neutralise any possible lines of action it may adopt?”

“The answer to the first part of the question is in the affirmative,” replied Mr Tubes in his best parliamentary manner. “As regards the second part, I may state that after considering the reports we have received it is not anticipated that the League offers any serious menace to the Government. Should the necessity arise, the Council may rely upon the Home Office taking the requisite precautions.”

“The answer is satisfactory as far as it goes. Being in possession of special information, will the Home Secretary go a step further and allay the anxiety that certainly exists in some quarters, by indicating the real intentions and proposed modus operandi of the League?”

Mr Tubes conferred for a moment with his chief. “I may say that on broad lines the League has no definite plan for the future, and its intentions, as represented by the policy of its heads, will simply be to go on existing so long as the deluded followers will continue their subscriptions. I may point out that the League has now been in existence for two years, and during that time it has done nothing at all to justify its founders’ expectations; it has not embarrassed us at any point nor turned a single by-election. For two years we heard practically nothing of it, and there has been no fresh development to justify the present uneasiness which it seems to be causing in the minds of a few nervous comrades. Its membership is admittedly imposing, but the bare fact that a million and a half of people are foolish enough 

There was a significant exchange of astonished glances among the occupants of Mr Strummery’s council chamber. Murmurs grew, and Mr Guppling voiced the general feeling by calling the Home Secretary’s attention to the figures he had mentioned “doubtless inadvertently.”

“No,” admitted Mr Tubes carelessly, “that is our latest estimate. From recent information we have reason to think that the previous figure we adopted was too low or the League may have received large additions lately through some accidental cause. We are now probably erring as widely on the other side, but it is the safe side, and I therefore retain that figure.”

Mr Tirrel had not yet finished, but he was listened to with respectful attention now.

“Is the Home Secretary in a position to tell us who this man Salt is?” was his next enquiry.

The Home Secretary looked frankly puzzled. “Who is Salt?” he replied, innocently enough.

“That is the essential point of my enquiry,” replied the comrade. “Salt,” he continued, his voice stilling the laughter it had raised, “is the Man behind the Unity League. You think it is Hampden, but I tell you that you are mistaken. Hampden is undoubtedly a dangerous power; the classes will follow him blindly, and he is no mere figure-head, but it was Salt who stirred Hampden from his apathy, and it is Salt who pulls the wires.”

“And who is Salt?” demanded the Premier, as Mr Tubes offered no comment.

Tirrel shook his head. “I know no more than I have stated,” he replied; “but his secret influence must be tremendous, and all doubt as to the identity of the man and his past record should be set at rest.”

Mr Tubes looked up from the papers he had before him with a gleam of subdued anger in his eye. “I think that our cock-sure kumred has geete howd of another mare’s neest,” he remarked, relapsing unconsciously into his native dialect as he frequently did when stirred. “I remember hearin’ o’ this Saut in one o’ th’ reports, and here it is. So far from being a principal, he occupies a very different position that of Hampden’s private secretary, which would explain how he might have to come into contact with a great many people without having any real influence hissel. He is described in my confidential report as a simple, unsuspicious man, who might be safely made use of, and, in fact, most of my information is derived from that source.”

There was a sharp, smothered exclamation from one or two men, and then a sudden stillness fell upon the room. Mr Tubes was among the last to realise the trend of his admission.

“Are we to understand that the greater part perhaps the whole of the information upon which the Home Office has been relying, and of the assurances of inaction which have lulled our suspicions to rest, have been blindly accepted from this man Salt, the head and fount of the League itself?” demanded Tirrel with ominous precision. “If that indicates the methods of the Department, I think that this Council will share my view when I suggest that the terms ‘simple’ and ‘unsuspicious’ have been inaccurately allotted to Salt.”

Mr Tubes made no reply. Lying at the bottom of the man’s nature smouldered a volcanic passion that he watched as though it were a sleeping beast. Twice in his public career it had escaped him, and each time the result had been a sharp reverse to his ambitions. Repression firm, instant, and unconditional was the only safeguard, so that now recognising the danger-signal in his breast, he sat without a word in spite of the Premier’s anxious looks, in spite of the concern of those about him.

“I will not press for a verbal reply,” continued Tirrel after a telling pause; “the inference of silence makes that superfluous. But I will ask whether the Home Secretary is aware that Salt has been quietly engaged in canvassing the provinces for a month, and whether he has any information about his object and results. Yes,” he continued vehemently, turning to those immediately about him, “for a month past this simple, unsuspecting individual from whom we derive our confidential information has been passing quietly and unmarked from town to town; and if you were to hang a map of England on the wall before me, I would undertake to trace his route across the land by the points of most marked discontent in the report to which we have just listened.”

A knock at the locked door of the room saved the Home Secretary for the moment from the necessity of replying. It was an unusual incident, and when the nearest man went and asked what was wanted, some one was understood to reply that a stranger, who refused to give his name, wished to see Mr Tubes. Perhaps Mr Tubes personally might have welcomed a respite, but the master of the house anticipated him.

“Tell him, whoever he may be, that Mr Tubes cannot be disturbed just now,” he declared.

“He says it’s important, very important,” urged the voice, with a suggestion of largess received and more to come, in its eagerness.

“Then let him write it down or wait,” said Mr Strummery decisively, and the matter was supposed to have ended.

The momentary interruption had broken the tension and perhaps saved Tubes from a passionate outburst. He rose to make a reply without any sign of anger or any fear that he would not be able to smooth away the awkward impression.

“As far as canvassing in the provinces is concerned,” he remarked plausibly, “it is open for any man, whatever his politics may be, to do that from morning to night all his life if he likes, so long as it isn’t for an illegal object. As regards Salt having been engaged this way for the past month, it is quite true that I have had no intimation of the fact so far. I may explain that as my Department has not yet come to regard the Unity League as the one object in the world to which it must devote its whole attention, I am not in the habit of receiving reports on the subject every day, nor even every week. It may be, however 

There was another knock upon the door. Mr Tubes stopped, and the Premier frowned. In the space between the door and the carpet there appeared for a second a scrap of paper; the next moment it came skimming a few yards into the room. There was no attempt to hold further communication, and the footsteps of the silent messenger were heard descending the stairs again.

Mr Vossit, who sat nearest to the door, picked up the little oblong card. He saw, as he could scarcely fail to see, that it was an ordinary visiting-card, and on the upper side, as it lay, there appeared a roughly-pencilled sign two lines at right angle drawn through a semicircle, it appeared superficially to be. As he handed it to Mr Tubes he reversed the position so that the name should be uppermost, and again he saw, as he could scarcely fail to see, that the other side was blank. The roughly-pencilled diagram was all the message it contained.

“It may be, however  ” the Home Secretary was repeating half-mechanically. He took the card and glanced at the symbol it bore. “It may be, however,” he continued, as though there had been no interruption, “that I shall very soon be in possession of the full facts to lay before you.” Then with a few whispered words to the Premier and a comprehensive murmur of apology to the rest of the company, he withdrew.

Fully a quarter of an hour passed before there was any sign of the absent Minister, and then it did not take the form of his return. The conversation, in his absence, had worked round to the engaging alternative of whether it was more correct to educate one’s son at Eton or at Margate College, when a message was sent up requesting the Premier’s attendance in another room. After another quarter of an hour some one was heard to leave the house, but it was ten minutes later before the two men returned. It was felt in the atmosphere that some new development was at hand, and they had to run the curious scrutiny of every eye. Both had an air of constraint, and both were rather pale. The Premier moved to his seat with brusque indifference, and one who knew Tubes well passed a whispered warning that Jim had got his storm-cone fairly hoisted. The door was locked again, chairs were drawn up to the table, and a hush of marked expectancy settled over the meeting.

The Prime Minister spoke first.

“In the past half-hour a letter has come into our possession that may cause us to alter our arrangements,” he announced baldly. “How it came into our possession doesn’t matter. All that does matter is, that it’s genuine. Tubes will read it to you.”

“It is signed ‘John Hampden,’ addressed to Robert Estair, and dated three days ago,” contributed the Home Secretary just as briefly. “The original was in cipher. This is the deciphered form:

“’MY DEAR ESTAIR, I now have Salt’s complete report before me, and there seems to be no doubt that the proposal I have formulated is feasible, and the moment almost ripe. Salt has covered all the most important industrial centres, and everywhere the reports of our agents are favourable to the plan. Not having found universal happiness and a complete immunity from the cares incident to humanity in the privileges which they so ardently desired and have now obtained, the working classes are tending to believe that the panacea must lie, not in greater moderation, but in extended privilege.

“’For the moment the present Government is indisposed to go much further, not possessing the funds necessary for enlarged concessions and fearing that increased taxation might result in a serious stream of emigration among the monied classes. For the moment the working men hesitate to throw in their lot with the extreme Socialists, distrusting the revolutionary and anarchical wing of that party, and instinctively feeling that any temporary advantage which they might enjoy would soon be swallowed up in the reign of open lawlessness that must inevitably arise.

“’For the moment, therefore, there is a pause, and now occurs the opportunity perhaps the last in history for us to retrieve some of the losses of the past. There are scruples to be overcome, but I do not think that an alliance with the moderate section of the Labour interest is inconsistent with the aims and traditions of the great parties which our League represents. It would, of course, be necessary to guarantee to our new allies the privileges which they now possess, and even to promise more; but I am convinced, not only by past experience but also by specific assurances from certain quarters, that they would prefer to remain as they are, and form an alliance with us rather than grasp at larger gains and suffer absorption into another party which they dare not trust.

“’From the definite nature of this statement you will gather that the negotiations are more than in the air. The distribution of Cabinet offices will have to be considered at once. B   might be first gained over with the offer of the Exchequer. He carries great weight with a considerable section of his party, and is dissatisfied with his recognition so far. Heape is a representative man who would repay early attention, especially as he is, at the moment, envious of R  ’s better treatment. But these are matters of detail. The great thing is to get back on any terms. Once in power, by a modification of the franchise we might make good our position. I trust that this, a desperate remedy in a desperate time, will earn at least your tacit acquiescence. Much is irretrievably lost; England remains yet.

“Yours sincerely,

“JOHN HAMPDEN.’”

Six men were on their feet before the signature was reached. With an impatient gesture Strummery waved them collectively aside.

“We all know your opinion on the writer and the letter, and we can all put it into our own words without wasting time in listening,” he said with suppressed fury. “In five minutes’ time I shall entirely reopen the consideration of the reports which we met this afternoon to discuss.”

“Has any effort been made to learn the nature of Estair’s reply?” enquired Tirrel. If he was not the least moved man in the room he was the least perturbed, and he instinctively picked out the only point of importance that remained.

“It probably does not exist in writing,” replied Mr Tubes, avoiding Tirrel’s steady gaze. “I find that he arrived in town last night. There would certainly be a meeting.”

“Was Bannister summoned to this Council?” demanded another. It was taken for granted that “B” stood for Bannister.

“Yes,” replied the Premier, with one eye on his watch. “He was indisposed.”

“I protest against the reference to myself,” said Heape coldly.

Mr Strummery nodded. “Time’s up,” he announced.

That is the “secret history” of the Government’s sudden and inexplicable conversion to the necessity of the Minimum Wage Bill and to the propriety of imposing the Personal Property Tax. A fortnight later the Prime Minister outlined the programme in the course of a speech at Newcastle. The announcement was received almost with stupefaction. For the first time in history, property money, merchandise, personal belongings was to be saddled with an annual tax apart from, and in addition to, the tax it paid on the incomes derived from it. It was an entire wedge of the extreme policy that must end in Partition. It was more than the poorer classes had dared to hope; it was more than the tax-paying classes had dared to fear. It marked a new era of extended privilege for the one; it marked the final extinction of hope even among the hopeful for the other.

“It could not have happened more opportunely for us even if we had arranged it in every detail,” declared Hampden, going into Salt’s room with the tidings in huge delight, a fortnight later.

“No,” agreed Salt, looking up with his slow, pleasant smile. “Not even if we had arranged it.”