To most people the 29th, the much-heralded “Labour Day,” had passed much as any other day.  Speeches were made in the Park and Trafalgar Square.  Straggling processions, singing the Red Flag, wandered through the streets in a more or less aimless manner.  Newspapers which had hinted at a general strike, and the inauguration of a reign of terror, were forced to hide their diminished heads.  The bolder and more astute among them sought to prove that peace had been effected by following their counsels.  In the Sunday papers a brief notice of the sudden death of Sir James Peel Edgerton, the famous K.C., had appeared.  Monday’s paper dealt appreciatively with the dead man’s career.  The exact manner of his sudden death was never made public.

Tommy had been right in his forecast of the situation.  It had been a one-man show.  Deprived of their chief, the organization fell to pieces.  Kramenin had made a precipitate return to Russia, leaving England early on Sunday morning.  The gang had fled from Astley Priors in a panic, leaving behind, in their haste, various damaging documents which compromised them hopelessly.  With these proofs of conspiracy in their hands, aided further by a small brown diary taken from the pocket of the dead man which had contained a full and damning resume of the whole plot, the Government had called an eleventh-hour conference.  The Labour leaders were forced to recognize that they had been used as a cat’s paw.  Certain concessions were made by the Government, and were eagerly accepted.  It was to be Peace, not War!

But the Cabinet knew by how narrow a margin they had escaped utter disaster.  And burnt in on Mr. Carter’s brain was the strange scene which had taken place in the house in Soho the night before.

He had entered the squalid room to find that great man, the friend of a lifetime, dead—­betrayed out of his own mouth.  From the dead man’s pocket-book he had retrieved the ill-omened draft treaty, and then and there, in the presence of the other three, it had been reduced to ashes....  England was saved!

And now, on the evening of the 30th, in a private room at the Savoy, Mr. Julius P. Hersheimmer was receiving his guests.

Mr. Carter was the first to arrive.  With him was a choleric-looking old gentleman, at sight of whom Tommy flushed up to the roots of his hair.  He came forward.

“Ha!” said the old gentleman, surveying him apoplectically.  “So you’re my nephew, are you?  Not much to look at—­but you’ve done good work, it seems.  Your mother must have brought you up well after all.  Shall we let bygones be bygones, eh?  You’re my heir, you know; and in future I propose to make you an allowance—­and you can look upon Chalmers Park as your home.”

“Thank you, sir, it’s awfully decent of you.”

“Where’s this young lady I’ve been hearing such a lot about?”

Tommy introduced Tuppence.

“Ha!” said Sir William, eyeing her.  “Girls aren’t what they used to be in my young days.”