The quiet business-like voice ceased.
He had spoken throughout in the manner with which he had begun; his eyes had been downcast throughout; his voice had been tranquil and restrained. His deportment had been admirable.
There was an instant's silence, and all eyes settled steadily again upon the motionless figure in black and scarlet and the ivory face.
Then Oliver stood up. His face was as white as paper; his eyes bright and dilated.
"Sir," he said, "I have no doubt that we are all of one mind. I need say no more than that, so far as I am a representative of my colleagues, we assent to the proposal, and leave all details in your Honour's hands."
The President lifted his eyes, and ran them swiftly along the rigid faces turned to him.
Then, in the breathless hush, he spoke for the first time in his strange voice, now as passionless as a frozen river.
"Is there any other proposal?"
There was a murmur of assent as the men rose to their feet.
"Thank you, gentlemen," said the secretary.
III
It was a little before seven o'clock on the morning of Saturday that Oliver stepped out of the motor that had carried him to Wimbledon Common, and began to go up the steps of the old volor-stage, abandoned five years ago. It had been thought better, in view of the extreme secrecy
