CHAPTER IV
I
Oliver Brand, seated in his little private room at Whitehall, was expecting a visitor. It was already close upon ten o'clock, and at half-past he must be in the House. He had hoped that Mr. Francis, whoever he might be, would not detain him long. Even now, every moment was a respite, for the work had become simply prodigious during the last weeks.
But he was not reprieved for more than a minute, for the last boom from the Victoria Tower had scarcely ceased to throb when the door opened and a clerkly voice uttered the name he was expecting.
Oliver shot one quick look at the stranger, at his drooping lids and down-turned mouth, summed him up fairly and accurately in the moments during which they seated themselves, and went briskly to business.
"At twenty-five minutes past, sir, I must leave this room," he said. "Until then—" he made a little gesture.
Mr. Francis reassured him.
"Thank you, Mr. Brand—that is ample time. Then, if you will excuse me—" He groped in his breast-pocket, and drew out a long envelope.
"I will leave this with you," he said, "when I go. It sets out our desires at length and our names. And this is what I have to say, sir."
